She starts walking and I cross the small expanse to my father’s room, pausing at the open door to hear him say, “Damn it to hell, Mike. I told you. I’m handling it.”
I enter the room to find him wearing a hospital gown, and sitting in a fancy leather chair, in the corner by a window, a cell phone in his hand. My gaze flicks to the IV, and I swear, no matter how aware I am of his flaws, the scent of medicine and death is in the air, twisting my gut into knots. He glances up, seeming to sense my presence and quickly tells Mike, “I need to call you back.” There’s a short silence and my father glowers. “I said, I’ll call you back.” He ends the call, and I pass the kitchen and bedroom area to join him in the mock living area, standing over him.
“Have what handled?” I ask, referencing what I’d overhead.
He scowls and snaps, “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“If it’s about the hedge fund you’re hiding from me, you’re wrong. I do.”
“Hiding something infers I care what you think. I don’t.”
“You sure cared when I bailed you out of hot water.”
His lips thin. “Until I make the damn thing come together, it might as well not exist. Why are you here?”
“I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “I thought it was because my father’s dying of cancer.”
“Take care of business. I’ll take care of me.”
“In other words,” I say, ignoring the brown leather couch and perch on the arm of a chair matching his. “Fuck you, Shane. Got it.” I change the subject. “You’re willing me the apartment. I’m drawing up the contract for you to sign.”
“And because you draw them up, I should sign them why?”
“Because I’m your son and you love me. And because you want me to sign off on that hedge fund that I couldn’t give a shit about.”
“It’s worth fifty million.”
“Like I said, I couldn’t give a shit. I’ll leave the contract with your new secretary. Unless you’ve already run her off.”
“Emily doesn’t intimidate easily,” he says, his index finger thrumming on the arm on the chair. It’s his “tell” he doesn’t know he possesses, and I have one of the answers I came for. Derek or my mother told him about Emily, and considering he was coordinating the Nina Thompson payoff, it seems safe to assume he’s well aware of the Martina cartel’s involvement in the company. “It’s rather refreshing,” he adds.
“You’ll have to step up your game then,” I say dryly. “We wouldn’t want people thinking you went soft. Speaking of the impression you’re making. Unless you want me to know things like you were coughing up blood as you left the Four Seasons this morning, I’d change hotels. Though I do enjoy the flow of information.” I stand. “I assume I won’t see you at the office today since you don’t like to appear weak, and you never know how the chemo cocktail they chose this time will affect you.” I head for the door.
“That’s it?” he calls out as I’m about to exit, and I know he’s looking for a reaction to anything or everything, but that’s not the way I win, thus it won’t happen.
I pause at the door and look at him, and damn it to hell, my gut clenches at the sight of the IV running through his arm.
“What did you expect, Father?” I ask.
He gray eyes, hollowed though they seem, narrow on me for several beats before he snaps, “Not a fucking thing.”
That’s all the good-bye I need and I exit the room, striding toward the elevators to find Derek and my mother with their heads together. Derek’s chin lifts, his gaze catching on me, hate he doesn’t even try to hide anymore darkening his stare. He steps toward me, puffing up his chest in his expensive suit, while arrogance puffs up his head. “Is this where you tell me we should come together because he’s dying?” he asks.
“I’m done pretending that’s possible. I’m done with you.” I step around him.
He calls out, “You’ll never win.”
I don’t turn, and my lips curve with satisfaction at the words everyone I ever beat had said when they started to feel fear. I start walking and I don’t look back. Not now and not ever again.
My next stop is at the bank to wrap up the purchase of the apartment Emily and I had looked at yesterday. I’m just finishing up the meeting when Seth calls to let me know he’s arrived at Denver ground zero and is headed my way with company and the need for discretion. Seth arranges a showing at another downtown high-rise apartment as a cover for the meeting. By the time I step off the elevator on the twenty-fifth floor it’s nearly lunchtime.
Once I’m inside the unit that is filled with modern, artsy furnishing, I find myself at the head of a glass table. To my left is Seth and to my right is Nick Snyder, a man casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his blondish hair starting to gray.