Page 118 of The Space Between Heartbeats
I nod and drop my hand to my side. “Mr. Moretti.”
My father crosses the room and hands me a tumbler. I don’t want it, but I take it anyway. Gives me something to do with my hands.
I cross the room to stand next to my father and across from Moretti. The air is thick. A gun powder haze, one spark and the whole thing’s blowing up.
Finally, my father speaks. “So, Vince, I wasn’t expecting to see you until next month. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
He makes a slashing motion with his hand, ignoring the question. “I don’t like this theme park mess. It’s bad for business. Not to mention, my Ella is traumatized.” His gaze trains on me now, and I’m not ashamed to admit my balls shrink up into my body. “You’re not doing your part, Knox.”
I keep my expression neutral. “I’ve been a little preoccupied. Given that I watched my brother die a few weeks ago.”
My father makes a low warning sound in his throat.
Moretti doesn’t blink, doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m aware of what happened. My condolences, again. But grief is a private matter. Business doesn’t pause for it.”
I take a slow sip from the tumbler, my hand trembling. “What exactly do you feel I’m not doing?”
I know I’m being bold, but fuck, I can’t let him walk all over me.
He tilts his head, studying me. “Ella is alone. She’s shaken. She needs stability right now, and you’ve been elsewhere.”
What does he know?
I make sure nothing shows on my face as I say, “I’ll reach out to her. Take her on a date later.”
“You’ll do more than that.” Moretti leans forward slightly, just an inch, and my blood rushes to my ears. “We had an understanding, your father and I. A set timeline. That timeline doesn’t change because of what happened at that park. If anything,” he pauses and gestures with his palm, “it accelerates things.”
I look at my father, but he’s staring into his glass.
Coward.
“What kind of timeline?”
“An engagement. Right away.” Moretti settles back again, casual, like he didn’t just drop a bomb on me. “It’s better for everyone. It gives Ella something to focus on. It formalizes our arrangement. And it puts to rest any questions about where your priorities lie.”
My grip tightens on the glass. What the fuck is he saying? An engagement? That was never part of the deal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Moretti’s goon straighten, his hand reaching toward his waistband. I’m so fucked. So royally, astronomically fucked. And it’s all my piece of shit father’s fault.
“An engagement.” I say it back to him without emotion. I need a second and repeating his words buys me one. “That wasn’t the arrangement.”
“Arrangements evolve.” Moretti folds his hands in his lap, nonchalant. Meanwhile, his guy has his fingers two inches from his waistband and my father refuses to look up from his glass. “Richard understood this when we spoke last week.”
I look at my father. “Last week? Richard?” The words come out quiet and controlled, which is impressive, because what I actually want to do is put him through the window. “You want to tell me what you agreed to last week?”
He finally looks up. And I see it—real fear in his eyes. Not of me, but of Moretti. Of what happens if this falls apart. I’d bet he’s been afraid for a long time and managing it the only way he knows how, which is to hand the problem to someone else and pour himself another drink.
He handed it to me, like he has been doing for too long to count.
“It made sense, Knox,” my father says. “Given everything. Given the…situation with the company, and what Vince has offered?—”
“What has he offered?” I turn back to Moretti. “Specifically.”
Moretti studies me for a moment. Then he says, “Political connections. Union peace. And the quiet disappearance of some documentation that your father would very much prefer stayed disappeared.”
“What documentation?” I ask, almost not wanting to know the answer.
Moretti looks directly at my father. “Your family was not entirely the victim in the Thorne situation. I think you know that. You’re a smart kid. You had to have known.” He tilts his head. “The documentation confirms it. Formally.”
The words are fuzzy to land, like they’re coming through a thick wall.
