Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
Phoebe
At seventy-two meters in length, The Ithaka dwarfs all other yachts in the harbor, and I was shocked I never noticed it all these months in Victoria. To which, a steward kindly told me that it just came out of the shipyard after a yearlong refurbishment.
How convenient that as soon as Varrick needs to showboat his wealth, his superyacht appears out of thin air.
I’m not impressed by the infinity pool, the lavish staterooms, the massive saloons, or even the outdoor cinema. If I could spit on each one, I would. But I suspect there might be hidden cameras in every crevice of this vessel.
The sundeck has loungers and a bubbling Jacuzzi behind me.
It overlooks the expansive main deck, where the couches, outdoor dining table, and pool reside.
The Bennets, Thornhalls, and Konings politely mingle and chat with the illustrious host of the invitational.
Barf. My brothers and I, the Smiths, have sequestered ourselves to the sundeck like rebels.
Really, we’re just trying to talk Nova down from his mood so he doesn’t act recklessly. He’s not like Oliver, Rocky, and me. He has a hard time pretending to be anything other than what he is.
Grumpy.
Protective.
Guarded.
Pissed the fuck off.
And right now, he rests his elbows on the steel railing, drilling daggers at Varrick from above.
To his credit, Varrick hasn’t glanced up here since the yacht left the harbor five minutes ago.
“I think we have his ears,” Oliver says like an absentminded thought as he casually sips his champagne.
Nova turns his glare on our brother. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Oliver says. “We have to share some traits with him. It’s genetics, man.”
Cupping my glass of iced seltzer water with lime, I squint harder at Varrick.
He’s listening intently to Damian Bennet, carrying himself with casual stoicism.
There’s no strict, uppity air about him.
It’s as if he’d be as comfortable on this multimillion-dollar yacht as he would in a local dive bar.
It’s quiet, magnetizing confidence.
His dark brown hair tucks around his ears and brushes against the collar of his shirt.
I find it hard to place his exact age, but he shares that in common with Addison, Everett, and Elizabeth.
Able to blend between late thirties and early fifties.
He has well-groomed facial hair—goatee and mustache—and he looks so…
familiar. It hits me. “He looks like Christian Bale, right?”
Nova grimaces. “Jesus Christ.”
“I think he looks like Christian Bale over Jesus Christ.” Oliver slips me a grin.
I send a smile back.
Nova runs a hand over his buzzed head. “You both are going to kill me.” He turns his back to the main deck and leans against the railing to face us. “The Dark Knight Rises doesn’t come out for another two months, and it’s sufficiently ruined. Thank you for that.”
I touch a hand to my chest. “I didn’t say he was Batman.”
“Just the actor who plays Batman.”
Oliver glances around the sundeck. “You think he’s recording us? Going to learn his kids think he’s Batman?”
Nova grumbles another curse under his breath before he says, “I can’t believe I’m missing The Avengers for this shit.
” And that is where his crappy mood originates.
He had tickets tonight to the movie he’s been anticipating since it was announced.
It’d been a source of pure joy for Nova’s comic-book-loving heart, and summering at Stonehaven snuffed it out.
We argue for three more minutes over whether we share any characteristics with Varrick—only concluding that Oliver and Nova might have his jawline. When I see our father slip away from Damian Bennet, I say, “He’s on the move.”
Sure enough, I watch him bypass a steward and aim his sights on the staircase to the sundeck.
None of us had a chance to greet him when we boarded the boat, since we hightailed it to the top deck.
A part of me hoped I could power through this voyage without interacting with him.
Those chances just slipped down the drain.
“Don’t push him overboard,” Oliver coaches, his hand squeezing Nova’s shoulder in brotherly affection.
Nova crosses his arms. His olive-green shirt pulls tight around his muscular biceps. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
The three of us take a collective, readying breath as Varrick climbs the last stair, and we rotate slightly to face him, Nova never loosening his arms over his chest, Oliver bent casually while sipping his champagne, and me—one hand on my hip, the other fisting my glass.
My brain hums like static on a television, words lost to this strange, morbid reality. What do you say to your long-lost father, who killed your boyfriend’s entire family?
That question sinks in my gut when he approaches.
His leather loafers tap softly along the teak deck, hair blowing in the soft wind. That quiet confidence I observed from above feels more intimidating up close. As if he knows he could own us as easily as he owns the vessel beneath our feet.
Though, maybe I only feel that way knowing who he really is. What he’s capable of.
A warm, charismatic smile pulls his lips. “The Smiths,” he greets. His champagne flute dangles casually at his side like an afterthought. “What brings you up here? Attracted to the isolation or yearning to be different? Introverts or mavericks?”
Nova glowers at the question.
I struggle to form an adequate response that isn’t Fuck you. Truly I thought I’d have more decorum once we were face-to-face, but my blood is set to high heat.
Oliver waves a hand toward the sea. “Just admiring the view,” he says.
“Ah, yes.” Varrick takes in the landscape, the colorful buildings in town, melting together as it becomes a distant landmark across the water. “Your mother loved this view, too.”
His words are a calculated slingshot. Nova stiffens and drills a harsher glare into Varrick. I’m sure he’s seconds away from telling him to keep our mother’s name out of his mouth.
I say quickly, “Loved. Past tense. Are you referring to when you knew her in the eighties? Was this even your boat back then or did it belong to your mother-in-law, Emilia Wolfe?” While my words are casual, it’s hard not to smother the flame from my eyes.
My gaze is full of accusations. I hope it screams, Murderer. Sinner. Fraud.
I might be the latter two, but I’ve never killed for what I have.
We are not the same.
Varrick slips his free hand into his pocket while hoisting his champagne flute. “Very sharp.” He sounds…impressed.
I cage my breath, waiting for the punch line.
He tips his head slightly to the left, and his eyes pass over me so quickly, so indecipherably that I know for certain—he’s reading my body language. He’s reading me.
“I’m not making a joke,” he says. “You’re asking all the right questions.
Yes, this was the eighties. No, it wasn’t Emilia’s boat.
It was her husband William’s. I would say may he rest in peace, but he was a wretched old man who beat the shit out of his wife and daughter.
So may he rot in hell.” He lifts his champagne to his lips and takes a casual sip.
Oliver glances nonchalantly around the sundeck, and I follow his gaze with the same indifference, but I’m checking for eavesdroppers, wondering how Varrick can talk so freely. Is it sheer egotism keeping his confidence unchecked?
“We’re alone up here,” Varrick confirms like he’s inside our heads. “But I have no qualms with repeating those words to the stewards or bosun. They know I have little love for my late father-in-law.”
My fingers grip tighter on my water glass. “Seems like you have little love for the entire Wolfe family.”
He shakes his head. “Not all of them.” And in case we couldn’t follow the insinuation, he adds, “I have nothing against Brayden.”
Nova narrows his gaze. “And you think he can say the same about you?”
Varrick laughs, light in his eyes. “Of course not.” He stares down at the honey-colored liquid in his glass.
“No, he knows the worst pieces of me.” Varrick looks at us.
“So do all of you. This summer, in part, is about changing that. I’m not the Big Bad Wolfe I’ve been painted out to be by Everett, Addison, and Beth—because I’m sure they had plenty to say. ”
“News flash,” I snap. “You painted yourself that way with the creeping around. You snuck up on my car outside a grocery store. Real great Michael Myers impersonation, by the way.”
He leans against the railing, forearm on the cool metal, and his eyes trail down to the other guests on the main deck.
“Most people wouldn’t have noticed me, but the fact that you did was a testament to how well you were raised.
” He turns his attention back to me. “It’s why I’ve invited you all here.
I’m not willing to work with just anyone. ”
“We’re not working with you,” Nova says.
For the first time today, this catches Varrick by surprise. It’s a split second. Nearly unreadable, but I see the shock cinch his eyes before he eases it off his face completely.
Oliver lets out a deep exhale. “Nova—”
“No, I’m not entertaining this bullshit,” Nova growls. “He just wants to use us.”
Varrick scans him. “And you can use me. That’s what a team is. Mutually beneficial.”
Nova pushes away from the railing. “You can take your mutual benefits…and shove them up your ass.” He stomps away toward the staircase, descending it out of sight.
Oliver winces. “He’s, um…yeah.” My brother tilts his head, then raises his flute in cheers before sipping.
Varrick arches his brows at us. “I’m guessing he was never a principal.”
My blood goes cold. He’s using our terminology like it’s his. Then I realize…it could have been his before it was ever ours. I don’t love that we could share more in common with him than half his DNA.
Varrick’s eyes flit between Oliver and me. “That’s what you still call the lead in a job? Addy and Beth created a whole lexicon that we used. It was quite clever, to be honest.”
I try to bury my interest.
I didn’t think he had leverage over me, but I realize now this is it. I ache for information. History. I’ve never been able to paint a clear picture of the past. Our moms kept it vague and hazy on purpose, but maybe Varrick can fill in the holes.
Immediate regret pummels me. I shouldn’t want a single thing from him. Not even the fucks he pretends to give.
Oliver’s curiosity doubles mine. I can see it in the way he bows forward slightly.
We don’t have time to dig any deeper. Varrick checks the time on his watch and tells us The Ithaka should be docking at Stonehaven in the next ten minutes. He says to make our way to the main deck when we’re ready, but Oliver and I watch him descend the stairs with an unconcerned, confident gait.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Oliver lets out a weighted breath. His eyes catch mine, and they say the same thing: He’s good. Maybe too good.
Oliver raises his champagne flute to his lips. Before he finishes it off in a heartier swig, he says, “This is going to be a long fucking summer.”