Page 44 of Ruthless Lord
I stiffen and nod tightly. “I know that.”
“Good. I don’t forget my responsibilities.” He leans in slightly. “Just like I taught you to always do what you promise you will.”
An ugly nervous discomfort roils through my guts. I’ve been actively trying not to think about spying on my husband. I know it’s going to happen—I don’t really have much of a choice anymore—but the more I think about actuallydoing it, the more it makes me feel sick straight to my core.
“Can I ask you something?” He nods slightly. My fingers twist together in my lap. “I’m sure you have about a dozen corporate spies you could hire for this kind of job. Why are you asking me to do it?”
His head tilts side to side. “Because the Marinos are dangerous. If they catch my people anywhere near their operations, I fear the reprisals will be somewhat violent.”
I picture Stefano choking out Big Boss like it was nothing. “You’re probably right.”
“And you’ve been too soft.”
He says it so simply, like he’s ordering off a menu, but it instantly strikes me to the core. Anger ripples down my spine as I stiffen and glare at him. “That isn’t true.”
“It’s not?” He doesn’t bother looking surprised. “You’ve done nothing this last year but hang around the fighting pits. I made you my heir, Charlie, because you’re sharp and clever. I think you’ll run the Westbrook assets very well one day. But you’re still unproven.”
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I’ve spent half a lifetime in the Westbrook offices. I’ve read all the books, taken all the tests, gotten the perfect grades, made the right friends?—”
“And yet none of that matters if you’re still weak.” He stares at me, eyes flinty and hateful. I’ve never wanted to hurt my grandfather before. I’m tempted to punch him in the throat right now.
“What’ll be good enough for you? How much more do I need to do?”
“Get me the information I requested about the Marino shipping business.” He pushes himself to his feet. “Give me what I ask for. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Which is about as bold a lie as he ever tells. Nothing’s ever good enough for him. Grandfather’s always been moving the goalposts, shifting the targets, pulling the rug out from under me. I swear, a part of me thinks he’ll never die, just to spite everyone.
I feel guilty the second I think it. But that guilt’s tinged with anger.
As the old man shuffles to the door, I call out for him to wait. “You haven’t given me a wedding present.”
His sly smile comes back. “Here I was, thinking the opportunity to inherit the entire Westbrook fortune was enough.”
“It’s not. I want Emily as my personal assistant.”
His eyebrows raise in surprise. “You like her?”
“She’s good.” I don’t elaborate. But I know I’ll be more alone than I’ve ever been in my husband’s house, and I could use a friend. Or at least someone close to it.
“Then consider her yours. Good help’s hard to find and all that.” He opens the door and leaves me alone.
I stare down at my lap. That conversation plays in my head.
I feel filthy. Everything’s all wrong. I shouldn’t have to steal from my own husband in order to prove my worth to my grandfather. I’ve worked my ass off by his side. I’ve done everything possible to show him that I’m more than capable of keeping the Westbrook properties as prosperous as possible after he’s gone. I earned it through blood and sweat.
Now he wants even more. He wants my damn soul.
And I’m sick enough to give it to him.
Chapter 14
Stefano
Sweat drips onto the canvas as my fists strike out. My opponent, a young man called Bryson, dodges and dips, grunting as a jab barely catches his guarding forearm.
I press him. I’m not fast like I used to be. My knees ache and my shoulders are heavy. My damn lower back’s acting up again. Bryson steps sideways and unleashes a vicious hook that I barely manage to stagger away from. I’m caught off balance, and the young man comes in hard, hitting me in the guts with three quick blows.
I eat them and strike back. In the process, I leave myself open. Bryson takes the bait, catches me with a straight jab, but I’m already coming for him. I hit back, each fist like a hammer, blasting into his nose, chin, cheek. He stumbles, trips over his feet, and hits the canvas hard. Blood spurts from his split lip and his right eye is already looking swollen and ugly.
