Page 52 of Raziel
He looked older. But not weaker.
And when he stood, I saw my own face in his—just harder edges and something unforgiving in the eyes. He had seen a lot more than me. It made him rougher.
“I had to come see you before you returned to Italy,” I said.
He motioned for me to sit, then poured two fingers of scotch into a cut-glass tumbler. “Didn’t think you would.”
I took the drink but didn’t sip. “I wanted to ask you something. About my mother.”
His expression shifted. Slightly.
I continued. “She made me promise two things. To marry Alessia. And to forgive you.”
He sighed, long and tired. “She was dying, Raziel. She was scared. She needed peace. You’re not obligated to do either.” He leaned in. “Make your own decisions, son. Don’t live a life someone else designed in their grief.”
He watched me for a long moment, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You also don’t have to lower yourself to work under Alessia’s father forever. It’s time you took your rightful place. You don’t have to live in Italy to lead. Everything I built is yours by blood.”
“Ask Caine to do it,” I said, the name bitter on my tongue. My brother, always so eager, so willing to get his hands dirty for a taste of power.
My father’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press. He knew a closed door when he saw one. He watched me a moment longer, the hard lines of his face easing into something that, on anyone else, might have been regret. Then he softened.
“Stay for dinner. Please.”
Please. A man like my father didn’t ask. He commanded. His will was law. Absolute power was his natural state, and he wore it like a second skin. He used words like execute, acquire, eliminate. He didn’t use please.
Except with me.
Maybe it was time for me to let go of the past.
I hesitated. “Can I bring someone?”
His brow lifted. “Is it serious?”
I thought about Maya’s laugh. Her mouth. Her rage.
“Complicated.”
“Bring her. Let me see what kind of woman is making my son question everything he knows.”
I texted her the address.
Maya showed up an hour later in a black wrap dress and combat boots. She had new hair. It was pinned up in curls, her skin glowing from the late-summer sun. When I opened the door, she looked up at the brownstone, then at me.
“You sure you meant to send for me?” she asked, half-teasing.
I took her hand and pulled her inside.
Serena fussed over her immediately, bringing her a glass of wine and complimenting her dress. Sometimes it was hard to hold on to the grudge I held against her. She left us, returning to the kitchen.
My father was in the dining room, wine already poured. “This is Maya,” I introduced them. “This is my father, Raffaele Mercier.”
My father stood. “Pleasure.”
Maya’s smile was soft, cautious. “Same.”
She looked to me. “You didn’t tell me I was meeting your father.”
“Didn’t want you to back out.”
