Chapter 6
ROAN
She’s not immune to my touch.
Good.
I glance down at the cleaning supplies scattered on the floor and smirk as I bend to gather them, placing each item back on the table where she’d grabbed them before fleeing, as if I’d threatened her life rather than just asking a simple question.
The way her pulse hammered beneath my fingers, the way her breath caught, the heat that flooded her cheeks—she can lie about her name, but her body tells me the truth.
With the last item returned, I make my way to my office. Dhimiter is already there, thin-lipped and waiting. Ignoring his disapproving expression, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over the back of my chair as I sit. “What do you have for me?”
“I don’t think trying to get under her skin is a good idea,” he says. “Especially when she’s just as capable of getting under yours.”
I shoot him a withering look that would make most of my men falter. But we’re close enough that he doesn’t even flinch.
Bastard.
“If you’re not going to be useful, then maybe you should go to your own office and actually get some work done.”
He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath and spins towards the door, shutting it behind him with a quiet click that somehow sounds judgmental.
She doesn’t get under my skin. I can control my attraction to her.
That’s what I tell myself as I boot up my laptop and navigate straight to my emails to track the shipment that’s meant to dock this weekend. Satisfied to see it’s right on schedule, I move to the message waiting from Lorik. The reports I requested on Uncle Fabian.
I open the attachment, leaning back in my leather chair, fingers drumming a steady, unconscious rhythm against the polished mahogany of my desk as I read.
Lorik has been thorough—too thorough, maybe.
Every ugly detail I suspected but hoped I was wrong about is laid out right in front of me in black and white, and I’m not sure how to process any of it.
Fabian is screwing up. Or rather, he’s screwing us over.
The pattern is clear now that I’m looking at it compiled in one place.
Several delayed and canceled shipments over the past few months I’d brushed off as bad luck or poor organization.
Payments for my workers on Long Island mysteriously vanishing, with Fabian claiming ignorance about where the money went.
Workers I’d sworn by—loyal men who had been with my father for years before working with me—suddenly going cold, quitting without explanation or warning.
The same men who’d busted their asses to get the bar built in just a few months—the reason I’d been so sure my restaurant would be ready by summer.
But after they quit, finding reliable replacements turned into a nightmare.
Which means the opening I’ve been counting down to is getting postponed indefinitely until something changes.
I have construction delays piled up. Permits, inspections—everything that could go wrong, had.
And it was all Fabian.
My jaw tightens as I scroll to the next report, scanning the growing list of offenses. Three thousand dollars Ate paid for a shipment of imported wine last month that never arrived. He didn’t mention it to me. Was he trying to shield Fabian?
Another five thousand missing from my restaurant’s remodeling fund—money that was supposed to be deposited into the new architect’s account. Except the architect never received it, even though I was assured it had been paid.
Every time, Fabian had reasonable excuses. Every time, he shrugged and swore he didn’t know why things kept going sideways.
Every time, he was lying through his fucking teeth.
I should never have involved him in my projects.
But Ate was so firmly against expansion from the start, adamant about leaving things the way they were. ‘If it works, why change it?’ was his mantra. Thought wanting multiple revenue streams—enough to be self–sustainable—was being greedy, reaching too far.
So I had to recruit help in the form of my more progressive uncle. Big fucking mistake, I know now.
Part of me—the one that still mourns my mother and wants to hold onto the last bit of human connection to her—wants to delete the reports.
Pretend I never saw them. To tell myself that Fabian is just experiencing a run of bad luck, that the workers are just lazy, that there are perfectly innocent explanations for all of this.
But another part—the part that was raised in the shadows of this family’s business, the part that knows better—sees the situation for exactly what it is. Uncle Fabian is either losing his grip, getting sloppy, or worse… betraying us.
Betraying me.
I exhale sharply, pushing back from the desk and rising to my feet. My shoulders are tight with accumulated tension as I cross to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the back grounds, staring out at the forest beyond where my development plans are supposed to take root and flourish.
I should tell my father.
That’s the logical next step. Present the evidence, let him make the call on how to handle my dear uncle. But another thought creeps in, darker and more paranoid: What if he already knows?
What if this is a test? Some fucked-up trial to see how I handle family betrayal, whether I have the stomach to do what’s necessary when blood is involved? After all, he didn’t tell me about the wine shipment that never arrived...
No. I dismiss the thought almost immediately. My father isn’t like that.
His relationship with Fabian has been shaky ever since my mother’s death, when Fabian blamed him for what happened. They’ve only recently started mending that bridge after Elira’s marriage and Luca’s birth. Maybe he was just giving Fabian the benefit of the doubt, like I’ve been doing.
Stupid. We were both stupid.
I can’t let Fabian’s actions go unchecked, but I need to be careful.
The older man is as smart as he is cunning, with a legion of connections built over the years.
And despite Long Island technically being a free-for-all territory divided among several factions, he’s managed to make himself the de facto head of the borough.
That’s a lot of power—a lot of loyalty he could call on if he ever felt threatened.
What would Ate do?
The question circles in my mind as I stare out at the forest. But whatever the answer, I know I can’t burden him with this yet.
Not until I have solid proof. These reports are just Lorik’s findings organized into one file.
In a confrontation, it would be his word against Fabian Besharun’s.
And even though I trust my investigator with my life—Lorik, Dhimiter, and I grew up together, after all—his word wouldn’t stand a chance against Fabian’s reputation.
So I’m not telling my father anything right now.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t check on him. Just… to see how he’s doing. That’s what a good son does, right?
Right.
I grab my jacket, pulling it on as I stride out of my office.
My mind races ahead, analyzing the best approach to confronting Fabian—if I even should. Making him aware that I’m onto him would most likely put him on guard, force him to be more careful. And once he starts covering his tracks, catching him will be damn near impossible.
No, better to bide my time. Wait until either Lorik or I find something more concrete.
I can be patient.
I turn down the hallway towards Ate’s office, frowning as a burst of feminine laughter drifts out, followed by my father’s booming laugh.
After his health scare, he only uses his office to keep up appearances with the men—though I suspect they already know I’m in charge now—so who could possibly be in there with him?
Easing the door open silently, I position myself to observe without being noticed. My frown deepens into a scowl the moment I spot the distinctive short cap of blonde hair across from him, her back to me.
Of course. Of fucking course it’s her.
I don’t need to see her face to know it’s my little genjeshtar.
There’s a chessboard between them.
They’re playing chess. How the hell did she go from fleeing my presence to playing chess with my father?
Ate is still chuckling, tugging on his beard as he watches her make a move on the board. “Come on, is this any way to treat a dying old man?” he asks, his tone playfully manipulative.
Jesus Christ, he’s trying the dying card on her?
She laughs again—a clear, genuine sound that does something uncomfortable to my chest—and runs a hand through her short strands.
“You know that doesn’t work on me like it does on the others.
We both know even with your high blood pressure you’re as healthy as a horse. So don’t try emotional blackmail.”
My blood goes cold.
She knows about his blood pressure. His health conditions.
Even though Ate takes her teasing good-naturedly—judging by his continued laughter—rage is building in my chest. I don’t like this woman knowing anything about my father. Least of all his vulnerabilities. Not when I know virtually nothing about who she is or why she’s really here in my home.
She’s getting too close. This needs to stop.
“What the fuck is going on here?” I snap as I step into the office and slam the door behind me.
Mia jolts in her chair, eyes darting to mine.
The sound clearly rattled her, and while she’s frozen mid-stare, Ate seizes the moment to casually shift a few pieces on the board, throwing me a conspiratorial wink.
Color creeps into her cheeks when she realizes it’s me, and she quickly looks away—only for her gaze to snag on the chessboard.
Her head jerks back towards it. “What did you do?” she exclaims.
“I believe I just won,” Ate smirks as he makes his final move. “Checkmate.”
I’ve never seen him this jovial, this visibly engaged and having genuine fun, since he woke up from his coma. A pinch of guilt stabs at me for interrupting his good time.
But fuck that. He can play chess with anyone he wants—any of the other maids, any of the workers, literally anyone but her.
“Is this the job you were hired to do?” I ask caustically, my voice harsher than ever. “Or are you doing what you’re really here for? Getting close to my father? Is that your actual role here?”
Spy. Infiltrator. Whatever the hell you are.
“Roan,” Ate murmurs, looking at me with reproach when she flinches. “Mia isn’t like that.”
“Mia,” I repeat mockingly. Because we both know that’s not her real name. That much is clear as fucking day.
She scrambles up from her seat, murmuring some half-formed excuse. Then, head ducked, she hurries past me—so careful not to so much as brush against me it almost feels deliberate. The restraint only pisses me off more, and my glare follows her all the way out.
“What was that for?” Ate asks, eying me warily. “Did she do something wrong I should know about?”
“Not yet.” Not on my watch. I close the door Mia left open and turn back to face him, crossing my arms. “You know better than to fraternize with the help.”
His lips press into a thin line, and he mirrors my defensive stance. “Well, there isn’t much else I can do, is there? I feel like I’m going crazy.”
Oh.
In that moment, my strong, unshakeable father reminds me of a belligerent toddler whose favorite toy just got taken away. Reminds me of Elira before her marriage—angry, frustrated, feeling caged by restrictions meant to protect her.
He’s bored.
I’ve been so focused on protecting him, keeping stress away, handling everything myself, that I’ve inadvertently imprisoned him in his own home.
I exhale heavily, suddenly feeling like the weight of the world is on my shoulders as I cross the room and take the seat Mia just vacated. It’s still warm.
Don’t think about that.
“Sounds like I should put you to work then. Can’t have you going crazy.”
Ate glances at me swiftly, the excitement in his eyes unmistakable.
There it is. That’s what he needs.
So against my better judgment—against every protective instinct screaming at me to keep him wrapped in bubble wrap—I tell him my suspicions about Fabian, starting from his repeated refusal to meet with me on Long Island and my conversation with Gjon.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the wine shipment you never received?”
Ate shrugs, but I can see him processing, reevaluating past interactions through his new lens. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of what I thought was just an honest mistake.” He pauses. “Are you sure about this?”
I nod. “I am. I had Lorik investigate him, and almost all the information I just shared comes from his report. The pattern is undeniable once you see it all together.”
“Hmm.” He strokes his beard thoughtfully. “I wonder what’s going on in his head. Why would he do this?”
That’s the million-dollar question.
“Who the hell knows what makes Fabian tick?” I smile faintly when he snorts in agreement. “Do you want to look into it?”
His eyes light up. “Can I?”
“Well, Lorik is still investigating, and I plan to look into it on my own too, but it could be a fun little project for you.” I lean back, studying him. “Think you’ve got what it takes?”
“Fuck you.” Ate raises a middle finger at me. “I taught you everything you know about this business. I’ll find proof before either you or Lorik even knows where to look. You’ll see.”
My smile widens. “I would like to see you try, old man.”