The young police officer who escorted me up turns to me. “Ma’am?” he asks, questioning whether he should throw my father’s ass out.
My first instinct is to return to Curran’s truck, with the rookie close to my side. But my stubbornness and anger hold me in place. “It’s okay,” I tell him.
I’m not sure he thinks it is. He moves ahead, taking his time to sweep the apartment, likely expecting me to change my mind. When he finishes, he stops in front of me, making a point to look at my father. “Anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you,” I answer, doing my best to keep my voice steady.
He waits a moment before turning on his heel and leaving. Like the rest of the cops watching me, he knows Curran and I are more than friends. He doesn’t want to answer to him, but he probably also doesn’t think he should stay unless asked.
I wait for the elevator doors to shut behind the young cop before I speak again. “What are you doing here?” I ask my father.
He mashes the tip of his cigar on the saucer to the left of his scotch. “Don’t talk to me that way.” His words are slow and precise, with an underlying warning.
I release my tight grip on the doorknob and force myself forward, fantasies of smashing him over the head with my purse swimming in my mind. “I asked what you’re doing here.”
He stands slowly, taking his time before hitting me with an expression as cold as the blood streaming through his veins. My first instinct is to curl inward. But I don’t. Not this time.
My non-reaction seems to give him pause. It doesn’t last, and of course he’s far from done. He lifts a thick manila folder from the table and tosses it on the floor. It slides across the smooth wood, stopping a few feet in front of me. “See for yourself.”
He expects me to fall at his feet and retrieve like the dog he mistakes me for. I lock my knees in place, refusing to move. “No.”
Father stills, his expression acquiring that of a man seconds from exploding until an unearthly smile cuts across his face. “It’s a bill for two hundred and forty thousand dollars,” he says. “I would think you’d want to see it.”
He laughs without humor as the bottom of my stomach falls to my knees. “What’s wrong, Contessa? Surely you knew the path to becoming an attorney was an expensive one to undertake.”
“You…” I attempt to swallow, but my breaths are coming too quick. “You were supposed to pay it—all of it.”
Father shakes his head thoughtfully. “That’s the impression I left you with, wasn’t it?” His smile vanishes. “Sit down.”
Says the master to his bitch.
“I said, sit,” he repeats when I simply stand there.
My eyes fix on the thick envelope, but I refuse to touch it. “You were supposed to pay this,” I repeat, my voice barely registering.
I turn left, then right, my fingers clutching the front of my tiny tank top and the long skirt fluttering around my ankles. This isn’t a joke, or some twisted lie. This is the ace up his sleeve Curran warned me about. “How?” I demand. “How could I possibly be allowed to attend a prestigious law school without you contributing a single dollar?”
Annoyance ripples across his face. My lack of obedience apparently isn’t part of his plan. “The Newart name goes a long way,” he says. “It pardoned and postponed your financial obligations until your graduation.”
Tears stream down my cheeks. “No. It wasn’t your name—it was your money.” In his scowl I see the truth behind my accusation. I gasp. “Tell me, how much did you donate to the school in order for them to dismiss such a large sum until now?”