Page 6 of Reckless Promises

Now he’s taken the helm for the Davenports, and I’m sitting on the Cross throne. So, while I’d like to catch up and find out how he’s doing, this is business.

Brandon taps his glass of whiskey. “Are you aware Ronan and I spoke prior to his death?”

Straight to the point. I can appreciate that.

“I am.”

“Then you know what it’s regarding?”

The Davenports run imports for most of the families in this room. They don’t ask questions about what is being traded and are masters of discretion. Their docks are known for being heavily guarded, and nearly impenetrable. And all those factors became increasingly important given my father’s desire to expand into new product trades.

“Yes, I’ve been brought up to speed.”

“Are the needs still there?” Brandon asks, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“I’m steering us out of that lane actually.”

His eyebrows pinch before he shakes his head with a chuckle. “Don’t tell me you’re cleaning house, Cillian.”

“Not exactly.” I smirk. “But let’s just say my father’s vision was a little narrow, and I’m thinking bigger. Let’s sit down and talk soon. But not here.”

He glances around the room, understanding. “Have Seamus schedule something. I need to take off, but I look forward to doing business with you.”

Cassidy smiles as Brandon pulls her away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mom turns to face me the moment they disappear. “Your father had plans—”

“And he’s dead,” I cut her off, downing the rest of my drink and setting it on the bar. I expected her resistance, but it doesn’t make it any less irritating. “So I’ll run his business as I see fit.”

I don’t enjoy turning into my father, but the pressure draws it out more each day when there’s nothing left to ground me to the person I was.

Mom clenches her jaw and forces a smile. Even if I’m sure she wants to argue, she’s quiet the moment I snap because my father trained her well. He broke her in like he did most things, unfortunately.

The lights on the stage once more brighten as a woman in a black dress walks out. The room quiets with her heels clicking against the wood, and she stops at the podium on one side. Brushing her slick blonde hair back, she rolls her shoulders and thumbs through her tablet, ready for the next auction.

The woman might as well be a statue—emotionless. Her eyes are empty as she scans the room. “Thank you for all your generosity so far this evening.”

Generosity.

Just because ten percent of every winning bid is donated to charity to disguise the true purpose of the auction doesn’t make that what it is.

“Next upis number thirteen.”

Staff walk around the room, passing out black envelopes, handing one to me.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen one, but it is the first time I’ve been handed one directly. They used to pass them to my father, and he’d explain how to read what it says. Even if he was married, he’d bring me to these events to talk business and show me off as the family heir.

Back then, I never intended on taking the role because I never planned to stay.

I open the envelope out of curiosity, even if I shouldn’t. And inside is a single sheet of paper, no larger than a postcard. At the top is the number thirteen, followed by a list of information you have to be able to decode to understand.

Twenty-one: Age.

Four trees: Family controls at least a billion dollars in assets.

Six Doves: Minimum six-figure bid.

White: Virgin.

---