Page 120 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
My mother died giving birth to me, so she never had the chance to love me. Or maybe she did, the idea of me, while she was still pregnant.
And my father… I don’t even know what that man feels half the time, but I can guarantee it isn’t love.
He’s too closed off. Present, but never really there.
Maybe he hates me for it, for being the reason he lost his wife. And honestly, I don’t blame him. I probably would too.
And I do blame myself, maybe so much that I’ve started to believe everyone else does too.
My brother’s no better. He’s mentally unstable, and love isn’t something he’s ever been capable of. Not because of his condition, but because he’s proved it, more than once. Like the time he tried to end my life.
Maybe that’s on his madness, or the demons that live inside him. I don’t know.
But if family can’t love family, what hope is there that a stranger ever could?
The whole concept feels absurd.
I lift my whiskey and signal to the waiter for another.
Paris grates on me, the noise, the tourists, the constant hum of people pretending to be in love. The number of marriage proposals alone is enough to make me sick. But I’m here for business.
My father’s words from this morning still burn at the back of my mind.
“You’ll handle this, Arlo. You’ll secure the deal. For once, do something worthwhile, get involved in the family business and stop wasting your time chasing a ball.”
And that’s how I end up here, sitting in a café-restaurant on the edge of the Seine, nursing a glass of whiskey, and studying the man across from me.
He’s in his late fifties, wearing a crisp suit and an expensive watch.
“Monsieur Vass,” he begins, “your father and I have worked together for many years. The Vass stones are known for their quality. I trust the new shipments will meet the same standard?”
I tilt the glass in my hand, watching the amber swirl before I set it down. “They will,” I say. “The Angola site’s output has been stable. The only issue has been transport security, but that’s been resolved.”
He nods thoughtfully, his gaze searching mine. “The new routes, through Antwerp, yes? Private couriers?”
“Two layers of cover, all insured under shell names. No customs delays, no signatures that trace back to us.”
“Good.” His smile widens, though it never reaches his eyes. “And the K-47 mine in the Himalayas, I heard the floods caused delays?”
“Temporarily. The mine’s operational again. We’re moving the first shipment next month.”
He leans back, satisfied. “Then we have an agreement. Twenty percent above the previous contract, as discussed?”
“Twenty five,” I correct, meeting his gaze. “You’re bypassing two intermediaries this time. That convenience has a price.”
He gives a small, knowing laugh. “You sound more like your father than you think.”
I smile without humour but don’t answer.
He signs the papers in silence, the scratch of his pen loud against the hum of the room.
When the deal is done, he closes the folder and extends a hand. “To continued prosperity, Monsieur Vass.”
I take it, firm and brief. “To business.”
He leaves a few minutes later, his cologne lingering in the air. I sit back, finish what’s left of my drink, and glance at my phone. A message flashes on the screen.
Father: Deal confirmed?
