Page 2 of Of Grief And Gratitude

“This must be stopped.” He cracked his knuckles and reached into his suit coat for a cigar, snipping the end off into the dormant rose bushes at the patio's edge. “If you cannot control the fallout of this indiscretion, I will do it for you.”

“I can handle it.” I wasn’t sure it was possible, but I could do my best at damage control.

“Clearly not,” he scoffed. “I’m tired of cleaning up your messes. It’s always something with you—and it usually involves a woman. This is no different.”

“You act like pictures of my dates are akin to photos with escorts,” I snapped. It was no secret that I cycled through women quickly, mainly to irk my father. I guess I’d finally found his limit.

“Some of those women were escorts,” he pointed out, puffing on his cigar as he lit the end.

“Only two out of a hundred, and they didn’t tell me beforehand, or I wouldn’t have taken them out in public.”

“See, this is your problem,” my father said. “You don’t think far enough ahead to make rational decisions.”

That was rich, coming from the man who had an irrational obsession with furthering his genetic line through his grandchildren. I suspected he’d impregnate more women himself if it wouldn’t cast his family man image in a negative light. He already kept mistresses on the side, and he’d never been kind to my mother.

“I’ll be more careful about the premium access in the future,” I promised.

My father held up a hand to stop me. “No, it’s too late for that. You had your chance—many, in fact—and failed on all fronts. I will fix this for you, just as I’ve covered up all your past mistakes.”

So much for giving the news a day to calm down.

“And how do you propose to take care of this perceived problem?” I ventured to ask. My muscles coiled tightly as I waited for his answer. My father could be unpredictable. That, with his penchant for violence, made him live up to his dangerous reputation.

“My men will find the leak and take care of it,” he said blandly.

“That’s not necessary,” I protested. My father’s ability to speak about murdering a woman sent a shiver down my spine. Sure, I’d killed men for the family, but I’d never touched a woman. It was supposed to be part of our unspoken code of honor. Women and children were off-limits. Apparently, my father didn’t follow his own rules.

“I’ll give you one week,” my father said as he tapped the ash from his cigar into my mother’s plants. “If you can stop the media storm and silence whatever greedy bitch sold you out, I won’t step in.”

“I can do it,” I said confidently. I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to save the woman’s life, did I? Even if I couldn’t stop the news stations, I could probably find the woman and give her enough cash to disappear before my father found her.

“I suppose that remains to be seen.” My father shook his head at me and walked away, leaving me standing in the chilly March air.

It was imperative that I find the woman before my father’s men. I didn’t waste any time calling a friend who could run the online tracking necessary to weed her out. If there was one thing I knew about Ettore Neretti, it was that he could never be trusted.

Every fucking minute mattered.

I thrust my hips upward, lifting over five hundred pounds, and damn near popping an artery in the process. All the muscles in my body burned from the workout I’d put myself through. It wasn’t enough to clear my mind, so I forced myself to do another five reps until my ass felt like it was going to tear from my skeletal structure.

When that still didn’t work, I racked the weights and slumped down, wiping the sweat from my face with a towel. My water had gone warm in the hours I’d been in my gym, and my stomach growled, protesting how I was neglecting myself by skipping meals.

Food. The gym. Water.

All luxuries afforded to the living.

All things that no longer mattered to Corilynn Price, who had been found dead in her vehicle down in the warehouse district. Strangled. The police believed it was a drug-related crime since money was scattered throughout the little Prius, and they had found traces of cocaine on a plastic food container in the back.

The fuck it was.

That was my money in her car.

I’d found her the day before and given her five grand to get the fuck out of town before my father hunted her down and eliminated the problem. Naïve and with a shitload of college debt, she’d been strapped for cash and leaked my content to the media outlets. The girl had only been trying to make rent and afford groceries.

Now she was dead because I hadn’t worked fast enough. Because I’d been stupid enough to underestimate how quickly my father’s men could work compared to mine. The cops might be naive enough to believe a young woman with no criminal history was somehow involved in the drug trade, but I could see my father’s signature all over the surreptitious hit. He’d had one of his men kill her.

Slowly.

To send me a message.

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