Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Lochlan
“C-Chantal,” Senator Banks says, struck speechless. His dark eyes dart around at the men assembled on the rooftop terrace, eventually dropping to Marco’s dead body bleeding out on the floor.
His shock is thick and palpable, but so is the instant calculation he does. His quick assessment of how he can spin the moment in his favor as the gears turn in his head.
What he doesn’t realize is that he’s basically the guest of honor at his own funeral.
He’s caught red-handed and there’s no weaseling his way out of this one. Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.
“This…” he goes on slowly. “This isn’t what it looks like. I can explain everything.”
“Then start explaining,” Ronan interjects impatiently. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’re the one behind tonight’s kidnapping. You came up here expecting to find your daughter tied up and ready for delivery.”
The senator’s face pulls tighter as if offended Ronan would dare intervene with his two cents.
His attention has settled on Chantal, who’s still by the railing, frozen in shock. She’s staring back at her father, completely stunned by the turn of events.
I’m much less surprised. I’ve told Chantal before what I think of the man.
When I was holding her hostage, it became increasingly obvious he was all about his image and career. While on some level he seemed to care that his daughter was gone, it wasn’t enough to bring him to cough up any funds.
It was enough for him to campaign for extra donations at record numbers.
Keith Banks has a few things in common with my father—he views his wife, children, and family as an extension of himself and nothing more.
As soon as they’re no longer a good look for him, he’s ready to dump them.
Whether that involves letting a wife die of cancer or allowing your son to rot behind prison bars or even selling your only daughter to the Russian mob.
Both men prioritize themselves and their interests first and foremost.
Chantal didn’t want to believe me; she loves her father and understandably wanted to believe he loves her just as much.
It’s a gradual realization she’s having as she stares at her father and realizes maybe he doesn’t.
“Chantal, sweetheart, I know this looks bad, but you have to believe me—that man—Marco Santamaria was blackmailing me. He’s been blackmailing me for weeks.”
She blinks at him, remaining mute. Her emerald Valentino gown flutters in the night breeze.
The lack of reaction makes him even more desperate. He sputters out a sound of frustration and takes a couple more steps toward us.
“He came to me with evidence!” he explains, motioning with his arms. “He told me he was part of the crew who kidnapped you in the Maldives. That he’d kill us both if I didn’t cooperate with… well… with…”
“With what?” I demand in a throaty snarl. “Spit it out, Senator! Tell us the bedtime story you’ve concocted!”
He shoots me a grimace that promptly flickers out for the concerned father role he’s playing. His brow furrowing and his lips curving into a frown; it’s the same expression he had when he pleaded in front of the media for Chantal’s safe return.
“His plan was to stage another kidnapping so he could sell you to those Russian criminals.”
I release a dry laugh, pointing at him with my pistol. “You expect anybody to believe that horseshit?”
“It’s the truth! I was trying to protect my daughter! I had the NYPD clued in—they were supposed to… they would intercept Santamaria before he made it to the Russians,” he explains desperately. “I was working with the authorities to bring him down!”
“Just like you were working hard to bring Chantal home the first time. All while you put down a deposit on some beach house renovations.”
“You vermin!” he hisses. “Stay out of this! This has nothing to do with you. This… this is between my daughter and me! Chantal, sweetie, you do believe me, don’t you?”
A single tear leaks free from Chantal’s misty eyes. She hasn’t taken her eyes off her father since he’s stepped onto the roof. The horror has only deepened, as if she’s stuck in a nightmare she can’t wake up from.
“Chantal, you can’t possibly believe I’d actually help Santamaria kidnap you!”
As he moves to take another step closer, the patience I have left evaporates. I stride forward to cut him off, finger on the trigger.
“Stop fucking lying! You’ve been caught with your hand in the fucking cookie jar. Why don’t you keep it real for once in your life and admit it!”
“I’m not lying! I was only trying to—”
“You HIRED Marco!” I roar over him. “He told us all about the man that approached him with a lucrative offer! You saying Marco was lying on you? What motivation would he even have?”
“Well, that’s… he wasn’t—”
“Your daughter being home was an inconvenience for you! Her coming back put an end to those record donations, then you had to actually be a father! You had to actually answer for things, and you couldn’t do it.
So what did you do instead? You decided to have her kidnapped and sold to the Bratva.
The perfect fucking solution for both of you—Marco would get his payday, and you’d get rid of the inconvenient problem Chantal was becoming. ”
His cheek twitches, though he holds his ground. “That’s absurd. I would never—”
“She found out about her mother, didn’t she?
” I grunt callously. “She found out you let your wife die because paying for her cancer treatment and then divorcing her would’ve been too expensive.
Not to mention how it would’ve made you look bad in the press, and we know that’s all you give a damn about!
“Then Chantal comes home and starts digging into your shit, and you couldn’t have it! Why not kill two birds with one stone?” I ask. “Get rid of her and make some money in the process. Hell, you’d even get to play the grieving father again. Worked out so well for you the first few times, right?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sneers, his composure cracking. “You’re nothing but a washed-up criminal who—”
“It was easier when she was gone, wasn’t it?” I press. “You didn’t have to answer her questions. Didn’t have to pretend to give a shit about her feelings. You could just be the poor, desperate father whose daughter was tragically taken, soaking up the sympathy and the campaign donations.”
“SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH!”
The mask vanishes as his frustration bursts onto the surface. The real Keith Banks emerges, features twisted and eyes flashing with rage.
“You think you know everything, don’t you?” he spits. “You think you’ve got me figured out? Fine! Yes, I worked with Santamaria! What the hell else was I supposed to do when my own daughter threatened to destroy everything I’ve built?”
“Dad...” Chantal murmurs brokenly, the sound barely above a whisper.
“It WAS easier when you were gone!” he booms, whirling toward her.
“I didn’t have to worry about you snooping through my things, asking questions about your mother, threatening to go to the press!
I’ve given you everything a father could give—the best schools and designer clothes.
The down payment for the stupid gallery you opened.
But it was never enough! You’re just like your greedy mother. You always wanted MORE!”
“How about love?” Chantal chokes out. “How about care? How about some of your damn time? That’s all I ever wanted from you! But instead you shut me up with expensive gifts like it was a Band-Aid for, you know, actually being my dad!”
“Oh, spare me the sob story,” he snarls coldly. “You’ve had a better life than ninety-nine percent of the people on this planet, you spoiled little brat.”
“HEY!” I bark, my temper held back by a thin thread. “Don’t you fucking talk to her like that, you got it?”
“I can’t believe you would do this,” Chantal says, shaking her head. “I always knew you were selfish. That you cared more about your career than Mom and me. But I never... I never thought you could let Mom die. That you would try to sell me to the Russian mob...”
“Your mother was going to ruin me! The affair would’ve gone public.
The nasty divorce battle would’ve made headline after headline.
Then I was expected to be on the hook for her medical bills and spousal support?
She was going to drag my name through the mud and take everything! I did what I had to do.”
“And me?” Chantal asks. “What’s your excuse for me?”
“What excuse do I need, Chantal?” he replies with a few more steps closer.
“You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to?
I hired a private investigator to look into your ridiculous kidnapping story, and guess what?
The underground dungeon? The masked man with a limp?
The details don’t add up. You’ve been covering for someone.
Protecting a violent criminal.” His gaze flicks to me.
“This violent criminal, I’m guessing. So don’t stand there acting like you’re some innocent victim when you’ve been lying to everyone too. ”
“So that’s your justification?” she fires back. “I covered for someone, so you get to frame him for another kidnapping and sell me to the Bratva? That’s your logic?”
“I was doing what I had to do to protect myself!” he shouts. “Something you clearly don’t understand, given how eager you’ve been to throw your life away associating with criminals and thugs!”
“You ARE a criminal!” Chantal screams at him. “You’re worse than any of them because at least they don’t pretend to be something they’re not. At least Lochlan keeps it real and never lies. He’s loyal to a damn fault, if anything. But you? You’re only out for yourself!”
“You ungrateful brat! Haven’t I told you to watch your tone?” he snaps. His teeth grit, and the last of his restraint disappears.
He lunges at Chantal, arms outstretched to grab hold of her.
“Don’t you fucking touch her!”