Chapter One
Graham
No.
Two letters. One syllable. Such a simple word.
It’s one of the first words we learn as babies. How easily it flies from our mouths, without even a second thought. We say it because we mean it, we feel it. We don’t know enough about the pain it can cause, the guilt that follows, the magnitude of what it symbolizes.
Our parents become angry when we say it. It’s a demonstration of defiance, us against them. They have the power, and we’re standing up to them, threatening to take that power.
But they always win.
And at that age, parents should win. Otherwise, most of us would’ve been dead from sticking our fingers in sockets, or crawling into the pools in our backyards. Our parents set rules and boundaries to keep us safe. And we trust them. So, we listen. We obey.
People often say family is everything. They’re not wrong. Our parents make us into who we are. They sew together the fabric of our lives, weaving our realities, carefully stitching our mindsets. What we think, what we know, what we do and say, all stems from our families.
But there are parents who abuse that power they wield.
Their warped version of love forces us to do things, awful things, while binding you in guilt. Because they know we’re loyal. Because they know how desperate we are to make them proud. Because they know we’ll do anything for them.
They prey on it.
On us.
And we let them.
Family is everything. But I don’t say that with the same warm and fuzzy sentiment you think of when you see that phrase on a Hallmark card.
Family can destroy your life.
Just ask Romeo and Juliet.
The Montagues and the Capulets led their children to their deaths. A fight amongst adults was responsible for terrible tragedy. I can’t even remember what the hell they were fighting about, but we all remember the result. Shakespeare wrote about dozens of twisted families because he knew.
He knew how a dysfunctional family can play a direct part in one’s demise.
My life could’ve been a lot different than it is. I had the talent, the drive, the opportunities. But family got in the way. I lost everything I’d worked for. Or as Dad would say, I threw it all away.
Now, at twenty-four with no college education, I’m stuck working for my father’s private investigation company. I’m the best P.I. he’s got, which means about as much as being the best fry cook at McDonald’s. Sure, I bring in the most money. But after Dad takes his cut, and I give a chunk of it to my sister, I’m not left with much. Had I not given up on my dream, I could’ve provided for my family. Could’ve given them anything they needed.
And Dad reminds me of it every chance he gets.
I despise my father. He’s a narcissistic asshole. If he dropped dead today, the only thing I’d feel is relief. I don’t stick by his side because I want to. It’s guilt that keeps me where I am, and Dad yanks me around by it like a leash.
“What do you say, son?” My father clasps his hands and rests them on his stomach as he leans back in his worn leather chair. There isn’t an ounce of fear or worry in his cold eyes.
He knows he has me by the balls.
“Why do you even bother asking?” I fold my arms over my chest. “Do you get off on it, pretending like I have a choice?”
His green eyes narrow, the corners of his thin lips tipping upward. “You always have a choice, son. You know that. If you don’t want to do it, just say the word. Of course, you’ll have to explain that to your sister come payday.”
I rise from my chair in front of his desk. “When do I start?”
His mouth spreads into a full-blown evil grin. “Tonight.” He slides a manila envelope across his desk toward me. “Everything you need to know is in this file.”
I reach out to take the envelope, but his hand clamps over mine, his smile gone. Soulless sapphire eyes glare up at me. “Don’t fuck this up, son. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.”
I lean forward, pressing my knuckles onto his desk, and bring my face down to his. Disgust pulses through my veins, but I stamp down the urge to ram his teeth down his throat. “I won’t fuck this up. You’ll get your money.”
“This is about more than money. I’m going to take back what’s mine. I’m going to take his empire and build my own, right on top of his grave.”
I shudder at how psychotic he sounds. I suppose years of obsessing over something will do that to a man.
Without another word, I take the envelope from him and stalk out of his office, making sure to slam the door closed behind me.
He hates it when I do that.
I walk back to my apartment, hoping the crisp autumn air will soothe the years of pent-up frustration and resentment boiling inside my gut.
I used to love living in Brooklyn. It’s like living in Manhattan without the expensive price tag. Then Dad moved his office less than a mile away, because God forbid I have anything that’s truly mine.
When I arrive home, I swipe the bottle of Jack Daniels from my kitchen counter before collapsing onto the couch, and flip open the file in my lap.
The headshot captures my attention in an instant, a photo paperclipped to the inside cover.
Long, raven-colored hair frames her perfect heart-shaped face. With porcelain skin and plump pink lips, she’s a natural beauty. She’s covered up in a cap and gown, the picture taken from her high school graduation last year. To the untrained eye, she looks like any other pretty face.
But I’ve been trained to look deeper.
Her dark eyes stare up at me, and I spot a playfulness in them. Coupled with the way her lips are curved into a smirk, it’s almost as if she’s daring you to do something. There’s an edge to her, trouble brewing just beneath the surface. And the longer I stare at her picture, the more I want to know.
Evangeline Montalbano.
Pretty name. Nineteen years-old. Born and raised in Manhattan, a New York native like me. I peruse the rest of the information in her file and then I groan. She’s involved in multiple charities, and spends her free time shopping and partying with her elite friends.
I tip the bottle back, letting the whiskey slide down my throat. Rich bitches like Evangeline are all the same. They use charity work to hide the fact that they’re stuck-up and self-absorbed. Can’t blame them, I suppose. They’ve had everything handed to them. This Park Avenue princess wouldn’t know a hard-days’ work if it bit her on her undoubtedly perfect Pilates-formed ass. Her greatest hardship in life was probably a hangnail.
But this job isn’t about her.
Evangeline’s daddy owns a multi-million-dollar corporation. Anthony Montalbano is one of the richest men in the city. He also used to be my father’s best friend.
According to Dad, Anthony unexpectedly pulled his money out of the business they’d started after college, and ran off with Dad’s girlfriend. It was a lifetime ago, but you’d better believe my father held onto it. He holds a grudge like a Pitbull in a tug-of-war match.
All Dad talks about is how he was betrayed, how it should’ve been him with the million-dollar company instead of bill collectors and a dead wife.
To him, this isn’t just a job. It’s personal.
This is revenge.
My instructions in Dad’s plan are clear: Pose as Evangeline’s bodyguard. Tail her, night and day, and infiltrate her home. Collect any and all information about Anthony Montalbano and his company. Dig up dirt, uncover skeletons in the closet. Anything my father can use for blackmail.