Chapter 18
LEVI
We lay tangled together, breathing hard, the yacht rocking gently beneath us.
Twice.
We'd had sex twice, and I was pretty sure if I moved too quickly, my legs would give out.
Amelia shifted beside me, her hand trailing lazily across my chest. "You need to go talk to your father."
I groaned. "No."
"Levi—"
"Let's take the yacht far out to sea," I said. "Or maybe take the black card and buy a flight to Australia. I hear Queensland's nice this time of year."
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with that expression—the one that said she was serious and I wasn't getting out of this.
"I'm serious," she said. "This is serious. It's your dad."
I stared at the ceiling. "I know."
"Then you need to talk to him."
I turned my head to look at her. "I'm not sure I'm ready to face him alone."
She studied me for a beat, then made the decision for me. "I'm going to have breakfast up on deck," she said. "And then I'm going to call my boss to discuss my … change of plans."
I frowned. "What does that look like?"
She shrugged. "I'll figure it out as I go."
That was Amelia. Jumping into the deep end and figuring out how to swim on the way down.
I sighed. "Fine."
The shower helped.
Hot water, steam, the rhythm of it pounding against my shoulders. I stood under the spray and thought about all the things I needed to say to my father.
Where the fuck have you been?
Why did you let us think you were dead?
How many more lies are there?
But by the time I stepped out, dried off, and pulled on clean clothes a crewmember had set out for me, the anger had dulled into something heavier. Resignation, maybe. Or exhaustion.
Mostly because of Amelia.
She'd looked at me like I was worth fighting for, even when I wasn't sure I was. And if she could extend that kind of grace, maybe I could, too.
I wasn't the type to hold a grudge. I'd seen what that did to a man's head—turned him bitter, twisted him up inside until there was nothing left but anger and regret.
I didn't want that.
So, I walked back into Dominion Hall, stomach growling, head spinning, and resigned to whatever came next.
My father was waiting in the kitchen.
"Good morning," he said.
I nodded. "Morning."
Delphine, the cook, was at the stove, stirring something that smelled like heaven. She turned when we entered, a warm smile on her face.
"Can I make you anything, Mr. Dane?" she asked.
It took me a second to realize she was talking to me.
"Uh, yeah," I said. "If it's not too much trouble. Six scrambled eggs and a pile of bacon, if you have it."
Her smile widened. "I'll have it out in five minutes. Now shoo, both of you. Out of my kitchen."
Byron chuckled and gestured toward the door. I snagged a mug of coffee on the way out and followed him down the hall.
I waited for him to say something.
My father.
Now what the hell was I supposed to do with that?
We ended up in the sunroom—a massive space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lawn and the harbor beyond. It was bigger than any sunroom I'd ever seen in my life, filled with light and plants and furniture that looked like it had been designed for royalty.
Byron sat in one of the chairs, gesturing for me to take the one across from him.
I sat, cradling the coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
"I know you must have questions," he said. "I'll answer anything I can."
I stared at him. "I have questions. I just don't know where to start."
"The beginning," he suggested.
I took a sip of coffee. "Fine. Start there."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "First, I want you to know that I loved your mother very much."
I interrupted before I could stop myself. "You know what a spot she was in, right? What a spot we were in when you left?"
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"Do you?" I pressed. "Because she raised seven boys on her own. Seven. We fought over everything—food, money, space. She worked herself to the bone while we all pretended we didn't notice. And you were just … gone."
"It couldn't be helped," he said quietly.
I laughed, sharp and bitter. "That's your answer? It couldn't be helped?"
"Levi—"
"No," I cut him off. "You don't get to 'Levi' me. You faked your death. You left us with nothing but a flag and a story. You let Mom bury an empty coffin. And now you're sitting here telling me it couldn't be helped?"
His face crumpled for just a second before he caught himself.
"I'm apologizing for all of it," he said. "And I'll keep doing so. But right now, we need to talk about the present."
I opened my mouth to argue, but Delphine appeared with two plates—mine piled high with eggs and bacon, his with something lighter.
"Eat," she said, setting them down. "You'll feel better."
She disappeared before I could thank her.
I stared at the food, then picked up my fork.
What better way to distract myself than by eating?
Byron watched me at first, then attacked his own food. And for a moment, I saw it—the same man, the same mannerisms I remembered as a little boy. The way he held his fork. The way he chewed thoughtfully, like every bite was part of some larger calculation.
I used to peek over the dining room table, trying to sit up tall like my hero dad.
The memory hit me harder than I expected.
"I missed having a father," I blurted out.
Byron stopped chewing. His eyes met mine, and I saw the grief there—raw and unfiltered.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."
"I don't want to hear sorry anymore," I said. "At least, not today. So let's talk about the present. What's so pressing?"
He set his fork down. "The note Amelia received at the restaurant—and quite possibly the reason she's here to investigate Dominion Hall—may all be tied back to my past."
I frowned. "Your past."
"To an organization so powerful," he continued, "that it has the clout to turn the mightiest heads in the world in whatever direction they want. And right now, that organization has their sights on me and my sons."
My pulse kicked up. "Why?"
"For what I know," he said. "And what I've done."
"What exactly?"
He shook his head. "I don't know exactly. At least not yet. I thought this organization—The Vanguard—would leave me alone. That we had an understanding. A pact. But obviously, that pact has been severed, and I don't know why."
I set my fork down. "Are they really that dangerous?"
His expression went cold. "Yes. They've already inserted themselves into the lives of your brothers. All of them except Micah."
My eyes shot up. "Wait—what?"
"Your brothers have been here," he said. "And they're coming back. Maybe today."
"What the fuck?" I said. "All of them?"
"All except Micah," he confirmed. "The only Montana Dane who hasn't made it to Charleston yet."
My mind spun.
My brothers. Here. All of them except Micah.
That brought up so many questions. Why was I one of the last? Was that on purpose? What did they know that I didn't?
But I didn't ask any of that.
Instead, I asked, "How can I help?"
Byron leaned forward. "I need you to talk to Amelia. Get her to tell you everything—about her sources, her employer, everything."
I shook my head. "I don't think that's going to happen."
For the first time, my father got deadly serious. His voice dropped, and the easy warmth disappeared.
"Amelia's contacts," he said, "are the closest thing we've come to a lead linking recent events to The Vanguard. We need that information. All of us. Our lives may depend on it."
I stared at him.
He wasn't exaggerating. I could see it in his eyes—the fear, the calculation, the weight of whatever he'd been carrying all these years.
"I'll try," I said reluctantly. "But I'm not making any promises."
"That's all I'm asking."
I picked up my fork again, appetite gone but not wanting to waste the food.
My father did the same.
We ate in silence, the sunroom filled with nothing but the clink of silverware and the distant sound of the harbor. And the whole time, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being pulled into something I didn't fully understand.
Something that might cost me more than I was willing to pay.