Page 5 of Tell Me

My blood ran cold at that smirk, and got even colder when the eyes came back up to meet mine.

“Daughter,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long time.”

When his grin got bigger, everything changed. My body, which had been covered in goose bumps at first sight of him, turned white-hot with fury. And I milked every ounce of it. Because now that I’d come back to my father’s house to ask for help, I was going to need every single spark available to me.

“Dad,” I answered. “We need to talk.”

* * *

I would have followed him on my own, and when he sauntered down the stairs and walked into the library, I started to. But the men had rushed in from the driveway now and surrounded me, and before I could take three steps they’d grabbed my arms and started marching me forward, like I was going to try to get away or something. I yanked my arms out of their hands and whirled on them, furious.

I fixed my eyes on the first one in line—the only one of them I recognized. “I don’t recall you asking if you could touch me, André,” I said coldly.

He sneered. “I don’t recall caring. You’ve been gone a long time, Brooks. Things have changed.”

I stepped up to him, forcing him to take a step back, and stared into his face. He’d never been a handsome man. At some point, someone had taken something sharp to his face and carved several lines down his cheeks. I’d been scared of him when I was a kid because I’d thought he’d made a deal with the devil and lost.

These days, I wasn’t scared of that kind of shit anymore. I’d done too many of my own deals with the devil to be put off by someone who’d come out on the wrong side of any bargain he made.

“Not enough for you to be allowed to lay hands on me without asking,” I breathed. “Last time I checked, you worked for my father. Which means you work for me. I’m only going to say this once, asshole. Watch your step. Or you’ll be sorry.”

I turned on my toes before he could answer and stalked into the library after my father, my thoughts already on the next discussion.

Though I noticed when André and his men didn’t follow me.

The library hadn’t changed. At all. It was dark wood and rich leather, the books on the shelves bound in something old and crackling and the chandeliers above us giving little more than a flickering light. The chairs in here were not comfortable and the books weren’t interesting. I knew, because when I was a kid I’d snuck in here, thinking it would be a great place to get away from my father and his temper. I’d climbed up on the shelves and taken one likely looking book down, then another, only to find they were little more than the classics.

Boring. Stuffy.

The chairs weren’t much better.

This was a room decorated to be impressive, not functional. Unless you called dragging subordinates in here—or victims—and doing your work in a closed room ‘functional.’

How very like my father to choose this room for our first meeting in ten years.

Dear Old Dad was leaning up against the desk, his hands propped behind him and his legs casually crossed. He looked every ounce the Hollywood star, and if I didn’t know any better I would have thought he was. A handsome face that could have come from the 50s. Hair that was still mostly dark, with only a hint of gray at the temples. A cut that looked casual but was actually gelled to within an inch of its life. Clothes so expensive that they molded themselves to his body like they were painted there.

He was the picture of elegance.

And it was all a mask.

He hadn’t started the Landry family. That was his grandfather, born during the Civil War to a rich old family. He hadn’t bothered to take sides during the war, unless you counted ‘taking advantage of the chaos’ taking sides. Great-Grandpa had made a fortune smuggling guns, food, and information in and out of the New Orleans ports. He’d played both sides, giving information to both North and South and doing deals with anyone who wanted one.

His lack of morals had made the family wealthy.

My father’s father had altered the family’s goals a bit, as other families came to the city and started throwing their weight around. Smuggling and importing had become too competitive and Grandpa Augustin had decided clubs, meat markets, and girls were the better routes.

My father, Dominick, had added sex trafficking to that list.

As far as I knew, my brother hadn’t stopped the practice.

My lip curled at the memories that brought back; girls being held in the basement of this very house. My father down there screaming at them to be quiet. Vans arriving in the middle of the night and hushed conversations in the driveway as girl after girl was shoved through the door into the basement. I hadn’t seen a lot of it, but I’d seen enough to know what was happening.

I’d even tried to save them, once. That little adventure had cost me enough that I still had nightmares about it. It had also turned me into who I was now.

And speaking of which...

I drew myself up to my full height and met my father’s eyes. “Dad.”

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