Page 57 of Reckless Love

“Shouldn’t that be my decision?”

“I just assumed your priorities as an example. You can do what you like as long as it keeps Tucker Securities viable on the island. No big fuck-ups.”

“Raul will be who they target. He’s the confrontational one,” I say.

“Flying in scab workers to cross the picket lines instead of paying fairer wages is certainly a choice.” Owen grimaces. “Ava’s well like amongst her employees, right?”

“Yes, but that’s just led to this misguided sense that she should be helping The Nile workers.”

“Shadow whatever detail you want, whoever you want, but you can’t be a visible presence. I’ll meet with the family and suggest they tighten their routines and timelines to make it easier to guard them.”

“Thanks,” I say. “And I’m sorry it’s gotten a bit fucked up.”

“If anyone understands fucked up, it’s me. Not great, obviously. But I also know that how we feel is how we feel, no matter how hard we might fight against it.”

Maybe his comment is an invitation to pry, and maybe it’s not. But my ability to carry other people’s emotional load is nonexistent.

Getting the Santos contract again is good for Tucker Securities. We charge them a shit ton of money.

But being back in Ava’s orbit, even from a distance, is dangerous. The collisions that could happen, the reckless things she might do. God, the reckless things I might do if she or Landon end up hurt by Raul’s selfish, greedy actions.

“I appreciate your understanding,” I say to Owen, rising from my seat across from him. “I won’t let you down.”

Now I just have to figure out how to keep Ava and Landon as safe as possible while keeping myself as far away as I can.

Chapter Twenty

Ava

The Tucker family mansion is bigger than the Summersets’ royal palace, and it’s my mother’s most consistent flex. A little fact she finds a way to drip into any conversation with someone of the upper class on or off the island. Although that nugget is closely followed by the revelation that one of her daughters has married into the royal family, has royal children. The Tuckers are now royalty—the only element of social status she’s never been able to buy, delivered to her by my sister, Maren. Not that Maren wanted to gift that particular societal jewel to my mother. She just couldn’t help who she happened to fall in love with.

Of course, my mother never mentions that Maren doesn’t speak to her anymore, that she’s never spent much time with her royal grandchildren. That her meddling in the lives of her teenage and adult children cost her almost all those relationships. I wonder, sometimes, how many people on the island have figured out the divide. They’d never risk Celia Tucker’s wrath by asking. My mother hoards people’s secrets—her own little currency.

Dalton Worthington is, perhaps, her most high-profile example of how thoroughly she can fuck someone over. His fall from grace is hot gossip on the whisper network. No one knows who he assaulted—the records are sealed—but theories abound, most of which are about my sister, Sawyer. His lengthy stint in jail and his complete removal from high society are enough to make everyone in Bellerive think twice about angering Celia Tucker. The royals and my husband are likely the only people devious or resourceful enough to survive her mechanisms.

Truthfully, I’ve never been afraid of my mother, but ever since Dalton, I’ve wondered if I should be. He deserved to be punished, but she went for the metaphorical jugular. Which might be fine if her interference had appeared to be protective, but her brag to me had been that she stripped his power, made him understand he’d never had any, not that she evened the score for Sawyer. Her favorite role is puppet master.

Across the room, my mother raises her champagne glass in a toast after giving her welcome speech in the grand ballroom. Beside me, Raul raises his glass and downs the whole thing before signaling the nearest waiter for another. I halfheartedly raise mine before taking a small sip.

The wine auction, a yearly benefit for the private school we all attended as kids, is due to start in twenty minutes. By then, Raul might be so drunk I’ll have to peel him off the floor.

Not that I can blame him, really. Our marriage is in shambles, even more than it was before, and The Nile’s union that he never wanted is on strike, taking every opportunity to fuck up his day-to-day operations. The scab workers he flew in to replace the union are being harassed at all hours. The other night, our house was sprayed with what Datu told me later was pig’s blood. It took days of manual labor by a specialized hazardous waste company to wash and scrub the house clean.

The union workers aren’t just mad; they’re almost out of control.

Raul drops his empty glass onto a waitstaff’s tray before swiping a full one, and I take a small sip of the drink I’ve been nursing since we arrived. If we both get drunk, we’ll end up in a fight, and the way we’ve been around each other lately, I’d be afraid of what we’d say.

The auctioneer takes his place on the podium in the ballroom, and he’s giving his preamble about how to bid, what to do if you’re successful, and how the wine will be distributed later when a set of side doors that are normally locked at these events flies open.

Protesters in Halloween costumes storm in. Placards, airhorns, and other noisy instruments flood around the wealthy patrons. There must be at least fifty people in various states of dress, but every one of them has on a mask.

Datu and his partner are at our sides immediately as the protesters stomp around and through the crowd near the front, chanting various slogans about fair wages, legal work practices, and removing scab workers from Bellerive.

“The stench of desperation,” Raul says, sipping his drink and seeming completely unbothered by what’s happening at the front of the room.

One of them dressed like the grim reaper grabs the mic from the auctioneer.

“Raul Santos,” the voice that’s clearly been disguised bellows into the mic. “We will not stop until you negotiate fairly. This is your last warning.”