Chapter 53 Cole
COLE
I took a deep breath, steeling myself before I pushed open the door to my father’s box. Three and a half years at Yorkfield University, and I’d never watched a hockey game from it. I’d never wanted to.
Still didn’t.
But what choice did I have, really?
Inside the suite, my father was already entertaining, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he spoke with business colleagues. I caught the team warming up on the ice out of the corner of my eye and deliberately turned away so I wouldn’t have to watch them doing it without me.
“Father,” I said, walking up to him.
“Cole, my boy!” He had never greeted me so enthusiastically before. “We were just talking about how glad we are to see you picking up the mantle for Carter Industries.”
I plastered on my most charming smile and shook everyone’s hands. “Something I should have done a long time ago,” I said, proud I didn’t grit my teeth through the lie.
“Why didn’t you?” Desmond Okonkwo asked me, his white teeth flashing against deep brown skin. He was a long-standing board member, one of many names and faces I’d been required to memorize as a child.
Because my father wasn’t threatening the people I cared about most in the world.
“Youthful rebellion,” I answered instead. “But I’m graduating this year, and as much as I love hockey, I care about continuing my father’s legacy more. How is your daughter doing? Didn’t she just start as a freshman at MIT?” I asked, changing the subject.
Okonkwo’s proud smile was blinding. That’s all I’d wanted from my own father. No, now was not the time to be maudlin and sentimental. I summoned the ruthless businessman my father wished he had raised—cruel, manipulative, and ready to bribe Senator Reynolds when he arrived.
After too much small talk, we turned to the rink for the anthem. I waited for my father and his guests to take their seats then dropped into an empty one in the back, intending to spend most of the game on my phone instead of watching my team play without me.
Eva’s red hair drew my eye, even from the distance of the box seats. She’d pulled it back into a braid that her curls were already escaping. She wore school colors but not a hockey jersey, assuaging the jealousy I’d prepared myself to feel.
Massi took the puck drop, with Tristan and Rami starting as wingers.
Nadia al-Rashid, the VP of our European operations, slid into the seat beside me. “Is it hard watching?” she asked me sympathetically.
“Of course,” I answered, hoping my voice was less raw than my chest. “But working for my father is the right decision.”
“You’re certainly bright,” she said. “But I’m not convinced you’re going to be ready to step in as CEO when your father retires.”
I snorted. “My father’s going to work until he can’t work any longer. I think we’ve got plenty of time for me to learn the ropes.”
“How’s that going?” she asked.
“It’s only been a few weeks,” I answered. “Right now, I’m trying to better understand the structure and the finances—who does what and why.”
Her hum was noncommittal.
The game blurred in front of me. Tristan checked an opposing player into the boards.
It was aggressive, surprising, and exactly the kind of play I would have made.
My chest ached watching him, watching my team.
This was supposed to be our season, and instead, I sat in a luxury box watching the game, about to help my father bribe a senator.
Senator Reynolds arrived during the first period, all polished smiles, firm handshakes, and no apologies about interrupting our viewing of the game.
Why would he? Nobody in this box but me actually cared about hockey.
My father’s box was an opportunity to see and be seen, to schmooze and make deals—everything I’d spent my entire life trying to avoid.
“Senator, thank you for joining us.” My father guided him to a quickly vacated seat beside him.
“This is my son, Cole.” I took the seat on the aisle so the senator sat between us.
“He’s been looking into some of our regulatory challenges.
” That was a lie, but if that was how my father wanted to play this, I was game.
Wouldn’t matter after Dmitri showed up anyway.
The senator’s handshake was firm. “Shame you’re not playing tonight. Were you injured?”
“Family obligation,” I said smoothly. The team’s press release had simply said I wouldn’t be finishing the season. Boy oh boy, had that upset the betting markets.
“Your father speaks very highly of your commitment to Carter Industries,” Reynolds said as he accepted a glass of whisky.
“I want to be part of building its future,” I said with a smile. “And that future requires innovation, not strangleholds from foreign powers interfering in American businesses.”
Senator Reynold’s eyebrows shot up, and then his smile turned sly. “I’m sure your father has some thoughts into how to incentivize that.”
My phone buzzed.
Coach
He’s on his way to the box.
I needed to keep them talking, keep them comfortable until Dmitri arrived. “It sounds to me like some folks don’t understand how American politics work.”
Reynolds’ expression tightened slightly. “They think money and influence operate the same way everywhere.”
“Don’t they?” I asked then softened it with a smile. “Operate the same way, I mean. Just with different players and different rules.”
Reynolds studied me carefully then nodded. “That’s why relationships with people who understand the game matter.”
My father watched me carefully, as if he was surprised at the words coming out of my mouth. This was what he’d always wanted—me, sharp and ruthless, willing to play these games. He had no idea I was playing against him.
Below, the Marauders scored. The crowd roared. I didn’t even see whose goal it was.
My father gestured for me to refill the senator’s glass. I reached for the decanter, grateful my hands didn't shake as I poured. The whiskey smelled like everything I was trying not to think about—escape, oblivion, silence. I set it down fast and shoved my hands into my pockets.
“I think we’ll work well together,” my father said to the senator, nauseatingly satisfied. “Cole here is proof the next generation understands—”
The door to the suite opened.
“Jedediah!” The voice was warm, the thick Russian accent pitched to carry across the suite. “What a wonderful surprise.”
Dmitri Lebedev stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit. Two men flanked him—security he didn’t truly need.
Every conversation in the box stopped as he walked past the abandoned catering and toward the rows of seats facing the rink.
My father’s expression turned carefully neutral. “Dmitri, I didn’t realize you were attending tonight.”
“I have box seats for the season,” he said, which was news to me. “You know my cousin, Aleksandr Novikov, recently resigned to pursue…” He stopped and smiled, sharklike. “Much like your son Cole, Sasha is joining the family business.” The bratva, he left unsaid.
My father said nothing, his expression blank.
Dmitri extended his hand to my father first, then to Senator Reynolds. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, his expression open and friendly. “Senator Reynolds, correct? I recognize you from the news. I’m Dmitri Lebedev.”
Reynolds accepted the handshake, too savvy to outright refuse it, no matter who might be offering. “Mr. Lebedev, it’s a pleasure. You said Alek Novikov is a relative? Are you a hockey fan too?”
“I am,” he said with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “And I keep a close eye on the betting markets. So volatile lately—especially when people receive bad advice about which games to bet on. Wouldn’t you agree, Jedediah? Very expensive mistakes for everyone involved.”
Reynolds’ expression shifted as he processed the name, the accent, the information about sports betting, and realized exactly who he was speaking with.
My father’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he smiled. But I caught it, and, more importantly, so did Reynolds. “Dmitri, perhaps we could catch up another time,” my father interrupted, his tone pleasant but not hiding the edge underneath. “We’re in the middle of—”
“Oh, I won’t intrude long,” Dmitri waved a hand dismissively. “I just wanted to say hello. And Senator, if you ever need insight into just how deep corruption runs in Yorkfield sports, I’d be happy to share my perspective.”
The temperature in the suite dropped ten degrees.
Reynolds set his drink down and stood. “That’s kind, but I’m afraid I need to make a phone call. Excuse me.”
“Of course,” Dmitri said, standing aside so the senator could pass. “My pleasure.”
My father followed Reynolds to the door, their voices low and urgent. Reynolds shook my father’s hand and said in a tone that carried, “I’m sorry. Family emergency. Please give my apologies to your other guests.”
The door closed behind him.
My father stood frozen for three full seconds, his back to the suite. When he turned, his expression was a mask of cordiality, but his eyes screamed murder.
“Dmitri,” he said, his voice silky. “How delightfully unexpected.”
“Is it?” Dmitri’s smile was all teeth. “Now that my cousin has returned to the fold, I expect you and I will have more dealings together.”
Holy shit, was Dmitri threatening my father? Every person in the box hung on every word of their conversation.
My father’s smile was equally predatory. “I’m looking forward to it. Please don’t let me keep you from enjoying the game in your own seats.”
The moment Dmitri left, Nadia cleared her throat and began an innocuous conversation with the board member beside her.
My father’s hand landed on my shoulder, his grip just shy of painful. “Cole, a word?”
I followed him to the corner of the suite. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know.
“Did you know Dmitri Lebedev would be here tonight?” His voice was quiet—the most dangerous version of my father.
“No.” The lie came easily, because my father had raised a manipulative liar. “I’ve never met him before.”
“He knew your name.”
“I’m sure he knows a lot about you, including your family.” I kept my voice steady. “Isn’t that what people like him do? Gather information?”
My father studied my face for a long moment. Below us, an opposing player checked Tristan hard into the boards. I forced myself not to look.
“If Reynolds thinks I have connections to the bratva, he’ll never help us. And if Carter Industries loses that license—” He cut himself off.
“Why are they so determined to take it away from us? Don’t we have time?” I asked.
My father shook his head. “There are other issues you don’t know about.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Work the room while I take care of some business,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
If he was panicking over a ten million dollar bribe, he was absolutely fucking broke.
What the fuck was going on?
Then, the pieces started to fall into place. The personal disagreement my father had with the Russian businessman must have been over a bet—an expensive one, one my father had promised was a sure thing, or a game my father was supposed to have fixed.
Either my father lost control of one of the players he was bribing, or someone had interfered with his fixing operation, or—
Fuck.
How many other wealthy, dangerous people had my father given bad advice to? How many of them were demanding their money back?
That’s why he needed the buildings sold immediately, why he’d been willing to bribe a senator, why he was desperate.
My father wasn’t just broke. His life was in danger.
Which meant so was mine, and so was everyone’s I cared about.
Fuck.