Chapter 13
Timothy
I can’t help but marvel at the changes all around me as I pull up to the curb in West End, the engine of the car ticking as it cools.
The part of town that used to be nothing but boarded windows and broken streetlights has come alive again.
Boutiques and bars line one side now, their awnings bright, music and conversation spilling out onto the sidewalk.
On my right stands the old brick landmark, The Royal Gazette, the building that once housed Forsyth’s newspaper.
It’s been reborn. And the people responsible for the rebirth?
The very people I thought would drag my son to the gutter.
The Dukes: Simon Perilini and Nicolas Bruin.
Simon inherited the building, along with Saul Cartwright's other assets, when he took down the King and stepped into the role. I figured they’d blow it all partying or down at their gym, but the men have more self-control and ambition than I realized. They’ve invested well.
Those two don’t get all the credit. Remington’s fingerprints are visible from the sidewalk. Pausing before the wide storefront window, I take in the stenciled artwork across the glass. The name and logo are painted in gold and black lettering: Royal Ink.
I enter what used to be the main lobby of the newspaper before stepping into the tattoo parlor itself. The room smells faintly of disinfectant and new leather. The original marble floor shines beneath my shoes, footsteps echoing as I move deeper inside.
A long chrome desk dominates the front, gleaming under gold-plated chandeliers that have hung here since the Gazette opened.
Behind it, two stations are already set up–extendable chairs, rolling trays and bright lamps angled just so.
The walls are lined with framed flash sheets, bold lines and vivid colors catching the eye.
My son’s work. Despite the animosity in our relationship, I won’t deny he’s a talented artist. It’s just…
tattooing? There has to be something more reputable.
Heavy footsteps announce my son before I see him, that same unhurried pace that used to echo through the penthouse of the hotel.
Remy steps out from the back hallway, a coil of extension cord in one hand, a drill in the other.
He’s tall—taller than I ever was at his age—bleach-blond hair falling across his forehead, tattoos crawling over the backs of his hands and disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of his black button-down.
I take him in the way I always do, searching for the ghost of her in his face.
The shape of his mouth, the sharp cut of his jaw, those green eyes—clear and bright today, no haze, no redness.
His long, artistic fingers are steady as he sets the tools down on a worktable stacked with pieces of wood. No tremor. No sign he’s slipped.
Maybe he really is doing better.
“Daddy Dearest,” he drawls, the words dripping acid. He doesn’t bother hiding his distaste. “What brings you slumming?”
I let it roll off me. “You’ve done a lot of work on the building.”
“Yeah,” he says, looking around the space with unmistakable pride. “Saul would be shitting bricks if he could see what we did with his mistress hidey-hole.”
“Saul was an administrator through and through. Outside the gun trade, which was always more the recruits than anything he was doing, the man had zero aptitude for business.” I take in the state of the room. “How long until you open?”
“We open officially after the new year, but I’m already taking clients.”
“A never-ending supply of Cubs to run through here, I’m sure.”
Bending, Remy plugs the extension cord into the wall. “The Cubs get their paws at the tower. That’s tradition. This is business.”
It takes everything in me not to point out the irony, that Remington, who fought tooth and nail against following in my footsteps, both with the Barons and as an entrepreneur, has built something of his own after all.
“You’re living upstairs?” I ask.
He eyes me suspiciously, arms folding across his chest. “What’s this about, old man? Don’t pretend this is a social call. We don’t do that.”
“As direct as ever.” I exhale a chuckle. “Fine. I wanted to check in before Arianette meets with Simon later today.”
“Ah. I see.” Remy’s mouth curves into a humorless smile. “You want to control things.”
“No,” I say quietly. “Not control. Just—”
“Just what?” He narrows those green eyes. “She still doesn’t know, does she?”
We both know what he’s implying. Who really wears the mask. Who Remy is to me and, consequently, to her.
“No,” I admit. “She doesn’t, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“What about your new Barons? Told them yet?”
“Yes,” I admit. “They earned it.”
“And she didn’t?” There’s no hiding the accusation. “She’s your fucking wife, man. She went through that barbaric ceremony, despite the fact that you’re twice her age and it’s nothing more than a fucking business arrangement, and you still don’t think she earned it?”
I don’t remind him that she should have been his bride, that the Barons should have rightfully been his to inherit, but he left that burden to me. I wave him off. It’s not like he understands what it’s like to be in a position like mine. “It’s complicated.”
“No, it’s not.” He laughs once, short and bitter. “You’re just a coward.”
The insult should sting, but it doesn’t because he’s right.
Maybe I am a coward. I don’t know anymore.
Things are changing fast in Forsyth, and maybe I haven’t been adapting with it.
But that’s my business, not my son’s. So I go with honesty.
“Arianette…” I search for the right words and settle on, “... she’s vulnerable.
Fragile. The kind of fragility I think that you would understand. ”
“You mean she’s a nutcase.” He snorts. “I know how much you love those.”
“Jesus, Remy.” My fingers move to pinch the bridge of my nose.
“She’s been through a lot of trauma, one she and her mind would rather not relive.
Your King demanded this opportunity and I’ve done my best to make her available.
On your territory, which is pretty fucking gracious of me,” I point out.
“The very least you can do is be considerate.”
I meet his stare and don’t flinch.
“Fine,” he mutters, picking up a drill bit. “I’ll keep your secret, but only because I have no desire to have a new mommy in my life.”
“Thank you,” I say with as much sincerity as possible.
The tension between us settles, so of course one of us has to pick at it. That person is me.
“Speaking of mothers… when was the last time you heard from yours?”
Remy begins arranging the pieces of wood along with several brackets and other hardware. “I send her letters, but it’s been a while since I’ve heard back.”
My son still thinks his mother is in a sanitarium in Europe, not just a few miles away at St. Mary’s, the same conservatory I had him sent to when he had one of his episodes.
Call me a bastard for keeping the truth from him.
A bad father. Call me whatever the hell you want, but I’m not allowing my son near that woman ever again.
“The medical staff tells me she’s doing well,” I tell him, “although a bit disconnected at times.”
“I’m sure it’s hard to stay connected when you’ve been shipped off away from everyone you know.” His jaw tics. This is dangerous territory for us.
“It’s for her safety, Remington, you know that.”
“Sure,” he says, pulling the trigger on the drill. “Keep telling yourself that.” The whir of the drill fills the room, loud and shrill, until he stops abruptly and mutters, “Safety.” His eyebrow shoots up. “Was your new wife thinking about safety when she burned down Strong Manor?”
The fire chief’s report says otherwise, but I guess my son knows the inner workings of Forsyth better than I thought. Or maybe he just understands the women of Forsyth.
“Possibly, maybe she and Lavinia can talk about fire bombing the patriarchy over tea,” I snap back.
I expect anger or a smartass retort, but he just nods and says, “Fair.”
Remy begins the process of building the shelf. It’s time for me to go, before this devolves the way it always does. “Arianette will be here this afternoon with DK and Hunter. Let me know if there are any problems.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll handle the Baroness with kid gloves.”
A thought hits me on the way out the door, and I throw out a warning. “And don’t you fucking dare let her leave here with a tattoo.”
He grins, probably the first real one I’ve seen today, and fuck. I probably just gave him the idea.
I’ve just reentered the lobby when the elevator dings. Glancing over, a huge stack of boxes emerge, face blocked, but I can tell by ripped tights and the combat boots exactly who it is.
The exit is mere feet away, and I have a meeting down at the hotel. I have every right to walk out that door and not look back. Despite that, I still find myself stepping forward and asking, “Need a hand?”
“Sure, babe.”
The endearment makes my skin crawl, but regardless, I step forward and grab the top two boxes. When Lavinia sees me, she stops short and swears under her breath. The grimace on her face says everything about how she feels about me. I’m not offended. It’s mutual.
“Christ,” she mutters, glaring at me as if I personally offended the air by breathing it, “it’s creepy how much your voices sound alike.”
“They do?”
“Disturbingly.” She shudders dramatically. “It’s all I could think of during your horror show wedding.”
Ignoring the jab, I ask, “Where do you want these?”
She jerks her chin toward a room at the back of the building and says flatly, “Back here.”