Chapter 5 Calder #2
That’s all he says. He doesn’t even turn to look at me when he speaks. Not sure why I expect him to greet me differently. He’s been like this for years.
I check my watch—8:58. “No, sir. I’m early.”
At my response he turns, fixing me with eyes a few shades darker than my own ice blue.
“Sure. Sit.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk, the one deliberately set lower than his own.
If there’s ever one thing you should know about my father it’s that everything he does is intentional, a play for power.
Roman Bishop is the king at making others feel small and insignificant.
I do as I’m told, keeping my face carefully neutral.
Years of practice have made meetings like this second nature to me.
Show nothing, reveal nothing.
Especially to him.
Emotions are weak. Feelings are weak.
When you have no emotion, taking another person’s life is easy, as simple as breathing. And that’s what he expects of me.
“Tell me what happened with Martin Everett.” His eyes lock onto mine, quiet but devastating, the kind of stare that strips you down to whatever ugly truth you’re hiding.
There’s no room to breathe, no space to think—just the terrible certainty that he’ll know if I whisper anything less than the truth.
“I’ll be honest with you. Shit went sideways. He got away, and we had to chase him down. Things ended the same way we planned, just with a little more cleanup than usual.”
“Is that right?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
The sleeve of his crisp white shirt rides up, revealing the edge of a tattoo, the Bishop brand, the same one that marks our cattle, our horses, and every member of this family.
“I got a very interesting call from Sheriff Tanner this morning. It seems someone reported hearing gunshots out near the James place last night. Any reason you would be at their place?”
Fuck. I hate the way my pulse picks up speed.
Despite the trickling of adrenaline in my veins I keep my breathing even. “Yes, when Martin ran, he made it onto their property. Things didn’t go as planned, but the result was the same. Martin is dead.”
I’m purposely leaving Saint out of the conversation because I don’t know how much Wayne told him.
“A job isn’t done unless it goes the way I told you to get it done, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes.” I begrudgingly answer because I can already smell the lecture he’s cooking up. I suppose a lecture is better than a beating.
“Are you playing stupid with me boy?”
I merely shake my head knowing it doesn’t matter what I say at this point. My father is a loose cannon and he’s going to do whatever he wants to do to me.
“Did I not teach you exactly how I wanted it done? How it needs to be done, every single time?”
“No, you did. I was trying to fix my mistake, trying to ensure that nothing came back on us. I didn’t mean any disrespect by doing things differently.”
The slight clench of his jaw is the only warning I get before he lunges across the desk, his meaty hand circling my throat in a flash.
He squeezes, like he’s testing its limits.
It takes every ounce of self control I have to swallow down my body’s reaction.
Instinct tells me to fight back, but fighting back would only make it worse.
I clutch onto the arms of the chair instead of wrapping my own hands around his throat in retaliation.
It might make me look weak, but I learned a long time ago that giving him any type of reaction, even defending myself, feeds the beast. He wants a reaction, a fight.
“Fix your mistake? By what? Disgracing my rules, and my way of doing things. Martin never should’ve gotten away.
What if he made it further than the preacher’s house?
Tell me you aren’t so heartless you can’t comprehend that you killed two people last night, one of which didn’t have to die.
” His grip tightens, crushing my windpipe, and causing stars to burst in the corners of my vision.
Each ragged second stretches like a noose tightening, my lungs screaming for air. I’d rather suffocate than give him the satisfaction of reacting. Staring into his eyes, eyes that are almost identical to my own, I don’t see a father. Not anymore. That man died years ago.
What I see instead is a tyrant, drunk on his own dominion.
When I don’t break, his lip curls with venom and with brutal force he yanks me from the chair, dragging me across the front of his desk like I’m nothing but weight to be shifted. His face is a breath away, his nose pressed against mine, his rage spilling like hot lava against my skin.
“Where was the phone call telling me there was a second body? That you had to kill Saintlyn James because she was a witness.”
“I’m sorry.” I force the words out of my mouth, but they’re nothing more than garbled nonsense.
A heinous laugh escapes him. “You’re sorry?
” He shakes his head, and I can feel his anger, taste it.
“No son, you aren’t. Not yet, but you will be.
” The words are a roar rattling the air, spittle flecking my cheek as he bares his teeth like a rabid dog.
“You don’t run the show! This is my kingdom.
My law. My blood keeps this empire alive.
And you—” he pulls me closer, the wood biting into my ribs.
“Have the audacity to disrespect me, to break my fucking rules?”
Every word digs like a blade, but I keep my jaw locked, my teeth grinding together until I taste copper.
“One son. One duty.” He hisses, and his voice is heavy with contempt.
“And you stumble like a fucking child. Maybe I should skin the weakness out of you, piece by piece, until even your bones scream loyalty. What do you think? Should I drag you out to the yard and break you in front of the men? Make an example out of you, teach them that a Bishop doesn’t get a free pass, not even my own blood. ”
I expected this. I expected him to react with anger, and rage but I didn’t think it would be this explosive.
“Won’t lie. I’d enjoy watching their faces when they see how easily I can turn my son into an example.”
A chill creeps down my spine, one I can’t mask.
Because the bastard means it. I’ve seen him do worse for far less crimes.
The images flash in the spots behind my eyelids, men begging on their knees, the way their screams echoed into silence.
For a heartbeat, I wonder if this is the moment he finally decides that I’m no different.
His own flesh and blood—just another lesson to carve into history.
And darker still, the thought slices through me like poison: if pushed hard enough, would I do the same? Would I become him?
“There is no excuse for sloppy behavior. You’re a Bishop.
You’re my fucking son. There is a standard to be upheld.
It doesn’t matter if you were going to tell me, you should’ve done so the moment plans changed.
I trained you better than this.” He grits his teeth, disappointment slicing through me.
“There was no reason Martin should have gotten away. No reason for the preacher’s daughter to be involved. ”
With a disgruntled shove he releases me, and I land back in my chair with a thud. I suck a ragged breath into my lungs and meet his gaze. “I know, and it won’t happen again.” I croak, my throat throbbing.
“You’re damn right it won’t happen again.
I won’t have my oldest son, my enforcer, making a mockery of me or our family name.
” The muscle in his jaw ticks, and I know he wants to hurt me, to physically punish me for disappointing him, and I’m sure he will.
It just won’t be with his fists. “If I wanted mistakes to be made, I’d have asked Kade to do the job. ”
It’s a low blow, and it slices deeper than any blade. My stomach knots, fury warring with shame until bile rises in my throat. Kade, my reckless, hot-headed brother, who he feels is barely fit to carry the Bishop name. Somehow my father paints me as worse, in this instance?
I keep my hands locked on the arms of the chair to stop them from shaking. Because what he doesn’t know, what I’m terrified he’ll find out, is that the job was worse than sloppy.
It was reckless.
Dangerous.
A single witness who should’ve been silenced could unravel everything. Could cost me my life.
“Understood.”
“What did you do with the girl? Wayne says you buried her elsewhere.” It’s the question I’ve been dreading, delivered with the casualness of asking about the weather.
I take a calculated risk. “I snapped her neck, and figured that burying her elsewhere would eliminate any future troubles.”
“Hmmmm. I’m not sure if I believe you. Not when you fail to share valuable information with me.”
“It was a mistake that I will not make again.”
For a few seconds he studies me, searching for the lie he can sense but can’t quite pinpoint.
Roman Bishop has an almost supernatural ability to detect deception.
It’s served him well in building his empire, in knowing exactly when someone needs to be taught a lesson they won’t survive.
“At least you didn’t fuck that up.” He finally nods, apparently satisfied.
“I’d hate to think you couldn’t pull the trigger on some preacher’s daughter. ”
The dismissive way he says it, some preacher’s daughter, causes a knife to twist in my chest. As if Saint is nothing. Disposable. Just another obstacle in the Bishop path.
That’s the way it should be. That’s how I should see it too, but I don’t.
“Now,” my father continues, “we have a more immediate problem. Pastor James will be returning home on Sunday night. When he discovers his daughter is missing, he’ll raise hell.
We need to make sure that hell doesn’t land on our doorstep. ”
My throat tightens and it’s sickening how easily I step into the role of enforcer. “Whatever you need me to do. I’ll do it.”
My father smiles, excited over the fact that I’m eager to prove myself to him.