Page 145 of What's Left of Us

“Father,” he greets, evading my eyes. He listens, the gruff tone inaudible from where I sit and watch Luca. “Yes, I’m well aware of that. What do you think I’ve been working on for the past two weeks?”

His jaw tics at his father’s reply.

“Nobody said that was coming up, or I would have shifted my focus. Maybe—” He’s cut off, his eyes narrowing as he clenches the pen so tight that his fingers turn white.

Interesting.

“Yes, sir,” he grumbles. “I’ll get on that right away.”

When he ends the call, his teeth grind as he tosses the phone down on the polished table harder than necessary.

“My father says hello,” he tells me.

A lie.

“You don’t like being controlled,” I state, sipping the shitty coffee he poured me. It’s burnt with a strange aftertaste. Do they not know how to make a decent pot of coffee around here?

“There is not one human on this planet who does,” he counters, his grip loosening on the writing utensil. “What does your father do for a living?”

It’s a random question, but one I’m not opposed to answering. “He works in automotive. He’s planning to retire soon.”

Luca looks thoughtful. “And I’m assuming there was no pressure for you to follow in his footsteps.”

I shake my head.

“There’s where we differ.” He uses the pen to point between us. “I’m sure your father has always been supportive of whatever you chose to do, while mine has spent decades fine-tuning themold he expects me to fill when he’s gone. I’m supposed to take over a multi-million-dollar company that he has barely stepped a foot in more than ten times over the past five years, yet he calls me to bark orders like he knows more than I do about the happenings. It’s insulting, really.”

He doesn’t want to take over the business. “If you had a choice, you would walk away?”

As calmly as he can, he leans forward with a smile that can only be described as haunted. “I would burn everything my father has touched to the ground, including this place.”

It’s not what I expect from him. Most people in his position would feed into the wealth and prestige that comes from being from a family like his. What makes him different?

“The reason why Georgia and I will always understand each other is because we are one of the same,” he says, dropping the pen. “Whether you like it or not, we were born into the same world and cut from the same cloth with the very same expectations. The difference is, she was brave enough to try getting out.”

“Shedid.”

Luca chuckles, the disbelieving sound flaring my nostrils. “If she truly escaped, then why are you here, Detective?”

I’m silent.

“You’re here,” he answers himself, “because she will never be free. Just as I never will. You can try to change that with your position in life, but it will never be enough because you are against players far bigger than the law you abide by.”

Even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean I’m willing to give up. “I suppose that’s another thing that makes us different. You’re willing to lie down and take it rather than make a stand. That’ll never be me, no matter the sacrifices.”

“But how much are you truly willing to sacrifice for your vigilante cause?” he questions curiously.

“Some sacrifices are worth it.”

“And some,” he argues, “aren’t. Guess you’ll have to figure out what you’re willing to risk.”

He’s not referring to a “what” at all.

Straightening in his seat, he smiles. “For the record, some jobs don’t need the law. They need an inside source willing to light the torch.”

Is that what he’s doing? “The problem with that is that you won’t be able to douse the fire from inside the house once it’s lit.”

“I never said I wanted to.”

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