Page 8 of Harry

I wait, hoping he will fill the empty space with something. Maybe tell me why he is here. In the end, I ask, “Were you with him?”

His body language changes immediately. His shoulders go tense, lifting up an inch as his chest puffs out a bit with a deep inhale. The frown over his brow hoods his dark eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “I was.”

My eyes fill with tears again and I wonder if I’ll ever run out. I press my fingers against them, willing them to stop.

“I tried…” he trails off. “I promise I tried.”

I nod my head, understanding that he did all he could. Wishing I had been there despite knowing I wouldn’t have been able to do anything more, anything different.

“I’m here because I thought he had three sons.” His eyes rove over me, a little more appreciatively this time, despite how much of a mess I must look. “When he was…” he trails off again and I begin to grow annoyed.

“Just say it. I’m a grown woman for god's sake.”

He nods. “After he was shot, he was smiling. He told me to look after his girls. I thought he meant the women who work in the club, but obviously, he meant you and your sisters. That’s all. I wanted you to know, I thought you should know.”

His words run through me like fire chasing fuel.

We stand in silence, watching each other for a long moment before I swallow to make room for the words I want to say. “Well, he thought enough of you to tell me to trust you. So, I guess you’re the one I need to deal with over here. Maybe you can start by telling me how the fuck my father is the head of a crime ring?”

Aidan

She is beautiful. I was struck dumb when I first saw her. There’s no mistaking she is a Cordez. The high cheekbones and grey eyes.

She is beautiful even with grief etched into the frown on her forehead.

I don’t want to tell her the details, I’m unsure of what she already knows. But her request makes me chuckle.

“You’re underestimating him,” I say, amusement lifting me for a moment from the tar pit of grief I seem to have found myself in. “He wasn’t just some ring leader of a petty gang.”

She stomps through to the bathroom, before returning, pulling a comb from a sheath of plastic. She begins trying to pull it through her wet hair. “Go on.” Her voice is firm, and I realise what Richard meant all the times he said Harry had what it took to rule. She takes no shit and suffers no fools.

“Your father was at the top of the criminal underworld. He had more fingers in more pies than any other British mobster and was considered equal to the Dons. They respected him.”

“So where do you fit into all of this?”

“He took me in when I was a kid. Fourteen or fifteen.” I sit on the couch opposite where she sits on the edge of the bed still pulling at her hair, the white fluffy robe is the only thing covering her. She crosses one leg over the other and the robe slips open, revealing the creamy skin of her thigh.

She watches me, cool grey eyes assessing every movement I make, and every word I say as she continues to struggle to untangle her hair.

“I can’t believe he kept it from us. How could we not know?” She finally loses her temper with the flimsy comb and throws it at the wall as she stands from the bed, then buries her face in her hands. “Why didn’t he tell me?” she asks as a sob works its way from her.

She clamps a hand over her mouth, surprised, it seems, at her outburst. Eyes wide and questioning. Like I might somehow have the answers.

I wish I did.

I stand and go to her. Not knowing why, but knowing that I need to hold her, as much for myself as for her.

She lets me pull her against my chest and I hold on tightly, inhaling the smell of the hotel shampoo she used mixed with something else. Something that must just be her. I realise then that there are no suitcases. She must have literally gone from finding out about her dad to flying out here.

“You said he left you a letter?” I ask, not wanting to let her go, but knowing I have to see what he said.

“He left one for each of us,” she replies, letting go of her grip on the back of my suit jacket. I immediately miss her, like I’m having something taken away from me but I’m not sure what.

She turns away, not meeting my eyes, and walks towards the bedside table where she opens the drawer to reveal her purse. Opening it, she plucks out a crumpled piece of paper that looks as though it has been read a hundred times at least.

“It doesn’t make any sense to me. How he could be the complete opposite of what I believed him to be.”

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