Page 68 of Icing Hearts

“And there’s Vince. I mean, we aren’t exclusive, but he’d probably be a little sad if I got married.” I let out an awkward laugh. Speaking Vince’s name feels so wrong in this moment.

“Hearing his name cross your lips is growing awfully tiresome, Clara.”

“Then I guess you can sleep on my shoulder.”

Chapter 39

Victory

It’s late when I get back from bringing Clara home. Nearly 2:00 a.m. One of my father’s men is waiting for me in the darkened living room.

“Your father’s waiting for you in his office. Downstairs,” he tells me.

His girlfriend is curled up on the couch with her head in his lap. There’s a plush blanket over her legs and he plays with her hair, draped over his mammoth thigh. I wonder if she knows how dangerous he is. This man in particular has choked someone to death while I listened in the other room.

No one knew I was there. I was thirteen and threw up every night for a week straight until my dad finally learned what I’d seen. We talked it out. I think he gave me some Benadryl to help me sleep. Then I started stealing from his liquor cabinet. I was coping with a lot at the time.

My father has two offices. The upstairs office is in the main part of the house that everyone has access to. He rarely uses it, and it serves more as a shrine to my sister and I. Loaded up with hockey photos and some of my trophies. The other half is my sister’s accomplishments in the tech world. She’s invented a few successful apps and is raising the coolest toddler around by herself. So I guess that half technically belongs to Giulia and Rainey.

Downstairs houses the second office, behind two sets of fingerprint-activated locks. The door to the tech wing, as I call it, is unassuming. When you first open it, it looks like an empty closet. Most people open it, see that it isn’t the rec room bathroom and close it again. But if you step into the closet and look left, there’s a doorknob upon a door that swings into a hidden hallway. In that small hallway, there’s a security camera and the first fingerprint-activated lock. The whirring of that camera sounds quietly as I go through the door to the sitting room. No one sits at the desk. It’s mostly for show. But sometimes people sit in the waiting-room-style chairs. They wait to strike deals or—unbeknownst to them—die. To be clear, they don’t die here. They get taken elsewhere to die. At least after I heard the Hulk upstairs killing someone that time.

The second office looms on my right. It’s fancy. All mahogany and rich, oriental rugs. No family mementos, though. Not down here.

Ignoring my father upon entry is key to establishing a necessary show of dominance. Upstairs, my father is gentle and caring. Down here, he’s a villain in a lair. Cold. Calculating. Demanding. Down here, he means business.

First up, alcohol. I choose a crystal decanter at random. Something deep amber will do. He sighs dramatically from behind me, the sound breaking the solitude of crystal on crystal and liquid. I kick back my first pour, relishing the burning sting and hating him for dulling the luster of the evening. I refill the glass and sit in the chair across from him. He’s still in his Italian suit. It fits with the downstairs office. Not upstairs. Upstairs he wears Italian sweaters. Cashmere, mostly.

Second step to establishing dominance: don’t speak first. To really tick him off, I pull out my phone and scroll on social media, chuckling softly as I go.

“Victory.”

Uh-oh. Full name.

“What’s up, Dad? Thanks for the booze.”

“Why was Chief Larsen’s daughter in my house today? On Thanksgiving, no less.”

I keep my eyes glued to my phone screen, sipping the liquor slowly. “Eating dinner and hanging out with your handsome and talented son.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“Aw, Dad.”

“What the hell are you doing with this girl? Spending all your free time with her, bringing her around for family dinner? I told you to be careful when that girl became your tutor. I knew you’d take things too far. You always do.”

“She has a name.” I finally look at him and inhale deeply, leveling a glare. Setting the tone. “You’ve called her ‘Chief Larsen’s daughter’ and ‘girl’. Her name is Clara. It would behoove you to refer to her by name.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

I exit out of the app I’ve been scrolling, put my phone to sleep and slide it in my flannel pocket. I kick back the rest of my drink and place the glass down on the desk with a loud thunk.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re trying to have a relationship with Clara.”

“How astute.” I cock my head—a young lion eyeing the aging pride leader.

“That can’t happen.”

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