Page 36 of Bishop

“In that case, I apologize for not letting someone else break the news.” He steps back from the desk, palms raised in flimsy apology. “But just so you understand, Langston has arranged a future for you. One within your Uncle Lorenzo’s organization. You’ll be taken care of.”

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. The hits keep coming.

“And I’m meant to be thankful?” Venom enters my voice. “I don’t want anything to do with the Italian mafia, Bishop. You included.”

“You’ll be safe.”

“With the Italian mafia,” I reiterate. “That’s not a flex. I know the type of things my uncle is known for. You, too, for that matter, Butcher.”

His hands fall to his sides, his nostrils flaring. “Well, color me surprised, belladonna. Given your extracurriculars last night, I didn’t pick you to have such stringent morals.”

The simmering pot of my rage, fear, and self-loathing threatens to bubble over as we glare at each other.

He assumes to know me. He thinks I’m an open book.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

My life is an intricately tangled vine of mistakes and failures, the creepers growing and flourishing with the nourishment my father fed them.

Emmanuel always knew how to use a bad situation to its advantage. To twist the narrative. To divert to a different course.

In that, he was utterly brilliant. A manipulative mastermind. And I was his protege.

“Tell me what you’re looking for,” Bishop repeats.

I swallow, feeling the weight of my bad decisions pressing down on me. I’m not going to find what I need in here. I may never find it at all.

My breath catches in my throat, the air congealing in my lungs. I need a bump. Just one numbing hit to keep the panic at bay.

I stalk for the hall, my pulse increasing, my fear manifesting in rampant heartbeats. I don’t know how to fix the mess piling around me. I don’t even know how to think about it without anxiety cutting me down at the knees.

“Where are you going now?” Bishop yells after me.

My lungs tighten as I make my way up the stairs, the opening sequence to hysteria closing in. I have to get to my room. I have to calm down.

“Abri,” Bishop shouts.

I pant my way along the upstairs hall, tugging at my scarf that makes it harder to breathe, yanking at the neck of my cotton shirt.

Secrets will die with me once I’m gone, dear daughter, and this will bring pleasure to many. But not you.

My stomach threatens to spill its contents over my father’s words. He never ceased to remind me of the changes that would occur once he passed. To reiterate the consequences if anything were to happen to him.

I enter my room and scan the floor, searching for my clutch. It’s not there. And neither are the heels I kicked off last night.

Did Bishop touch them?

His footsteps carry along the hall then his large frame engulfs my doorway.

“Did you move my stuff?” I turn to him, no longer able to hide my panic.

“What are you looking for?”

We are an unbreakable team, beautiful daughter. If I were to die, you know a part of you would too.

“My clutch.” My throat restricts. Only the barest hint of oxygen filters into my system as I gasp for breath. “W-where is it?”

He raises a brow, and for one terrified moment I think he’ll deny me, but he jerks his chin toward the bed. “On your bedside table.”

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