Page 2 of Beauty and the Daddy
Every surface screams power: first-edition books that museums would kill for, a fireplace large enough to hide bodies in, crystal decanters filled with liquor that probably costs more per bottle than I make in a month.
Two men built like walking apocalypses flank the door.
Their suits are expensive enough to be respectable, but can't hide the fact that they're carrying enough firepower to level a city block.
I've never seen a gun in real life. Now I'm pretty sure I'm looking at several.
"Dad, what the hell is going on?" I hiss, trying not to sweat through my Target sundress.
Dad just shakes his head, his eyes darting around like he's a spooked horse. "Belle, please. Just… let me do the talking. Keep your head down."
Keep my head down? That's not the man who raised me.
My dad once stared down a supplier twice his size because the guy tried shorting a shipment by a pallet. He winked at me after, like it was a game.
Now he won't even meet my eyes?
I feel a whip of terror lash down my limbs. Something is seriously wrong.
I want to ask what, but now isn't the time. I'd rather not put Dad on the spot with those goons around.
Meanwhile, Dad's sweating through his precious good suit, and the lady in a cleaning uniform downstairs already gave me the kind of once-over usually reserved for gum stuck to Louboutins.
I get bored of sitting, my sundress sticking to the backs of my thighs on all that leather.
I stand and walk around.
The whole time, the two goons watch like they're deciding which rug to roll our bodies in when they're done.
The office is obscene.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with hardbacks, a fireplace so big you could roast an ox in it, and a desk the size of my childhood bed.
There's a crystal decanter of scotch gleaming on a sideboard like it's auditioning forMad Men.
It's the kind of room that doesn't just scream money. It whispers power.
The "I've got the president on the line" kind of power.
What business does my father even have in a place like this?
I drift toward the window, needing air.
There's a courtyard a floor below us, visible through the angled windows.
And that's when I see him.
Through the window, men fight in the courtyard below.
Not fight, destroy each other. Blood on grass. Ink-covered muscle meeting bone.
The sound of impact carries through glass that looks thick enough to stop bullets.
Then I see him.
He moves through the other fighters like they're standing still.
Doesn't just beat them, dismisses them. A lazy block here, a casual strike there.
