Page 39 of Angel Eyes

My father might have expressed a vague interest in what I was saying between asking me to check in with the kitchen staff and to inspect the table place settings, but if he didn’t, I doubt I minded. That was the silent contract between us—I got to pursue my art studies, and he got my evenings six nights a week, working at the restaurant and learning the business. A win-win for everybody.

That is until it all went to shit.

To this day, I wasn’t sure why I’d done it. Why, when my father confronted me on that humid summer night, his eyes flashing with anger and disappointment, I hadn’t just told him the truth. The whole truth. I’d had my reasons, but those reasons didn’t add up to much in the end. When it was all said and done, I still turned my back on him and walked away, the words I refused to speak bitter on my tongue.

I tried to convince myself I’d made the right choice in protecting the people I cared about. But in the end, they both betrayed me, and, whatever my motivations, the price of covering it up had been steep.

A knock at the front door drew me from my thoughts, and I paused, discarding my brush in a cup of water and wiping my paint-smeared hands on a rag. After a moment, the knock came again, and I tossed the rag down on a crate, making my way to the main room. I couldn’t imagine who would be looking for me here. Only a few people even knew about this place—James and Nora, Jean-Claude, and the Uber Eats guy.

Passing through the door of my studio, I headed for the front door, only to halt mid-step when I saw who was standing on the other side of the glass.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

He looked much the same as I remembered. Ash-blond hair, clean-shaven square jaw, a hand tucked into the pocket of designer dress pants, a ridiculous-looking watch on his wrist.

Still an insufferable asshole, I see.

“Cousin,” he said when I opened the door, his tone way too cheerful for my liking. “I must say, it’s been too long.”

I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Not long enough as far as I'm concerned.”

His cool gray eyes slid over me as one side of his mouth tipped up, and I flexed my hand, weighing the pros and cons of just knocking him flat on the sidewalk.

“You’re looking well.” He nodded to my paint-splattered clothes.

“What the hell do you want, Lucien?” And how had he found out about the gallery?

He chuckled. “Still calling me that, are you?”

“It’s your name, last time I checked,” I said, my patience draining at an alarming rate.

He smoothed a non-existent crease from his shirt. “Come now, you know I’ve always hated that name. These days I prefer to go by—”

“Great story, but I really don’t care.” I moved to push the door shut, but he stopped me, pressing a hand against the glass.

“Wait, can I come in?” Perceptive as ever, he cleared his throat, not giving me the chance to tell him to fuck off. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, Gabriel. I even stopped by your place of business earlier this week, but your colorful employer said you weren’t in.”

My eyes widened before narrowing to slits. “You were the one who came to the bike shop?” I took a quick mental inventory of the description James had given me. Tall. Blonde. Absolutely loaded. Of course—why hadn’t it occurred to me it might be Lucien? I snorted. Probably because I had spent the last three years trying to forget he ever existed.

Lucien nodded. “Yes. I’ve come because Marcel is looking for you.”

Marcel. I’d forgotten Lucien called my father by his first name instead of Uncle or by any other acceptable term of endearment. But I supposed his general lack of human emotion tracked with the rest of his soulless personality.

“Yes, I am aware. If there’s nothing else …” I tried to close the door again, but he slipped one of his perfectly polished shoes in the doorway.

“He wants to see you,” he said, dropping the friendly pretense. “He’s tried calling, even texting—and you know how much he hates that. But you haven’t returned any of his messages.”

“Yes, well, that’s typically what happens when one doesn’t wish to speak to a person.”

His eyes drifted to the pavement, hands returning to his pockets. “It’s been three years, Gabriel,” he said, his voice barely audible. “How long do you plan to avoid him?”

I glared at him, my teeth clamping together so hard I worried I would crack a molar. “I’m sorry. Did he think I would be home every year for Christmas after he disinherited me?”

Lucien let out a long sigh, a bored expression etching across his features as he straightened his cuff links. And that just pissed me off.

“And you,” I snarled. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here. You’re nothing but a traitorous snake.”

Cold-blooded Lucien. Always slinking through life with his superior air of disinterest, unaffected by the affairs of mere mortals. If I didn’t know what a heartless bastard he was, I might feel sorry for him.

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