Page 118 of Ruthless Dream

He steps around me, not waiting for an invitation. Since I was on my way out, most of the lights are off, and he’s cast in shadows.

“Da?”

His gaze is focused on the stack of boxes near my computer.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“Yeah, I was on my way out.”

He nods at the boxes. “Packing your stuff up then?”

I frown. “No, I’m just switching some stuff out.”

Da glances at me. A lock of dark hair has fallen into his eyes. He makes no move to brush it away. He’s lethally still, and something zips down my spine.

Adeline’s phone isn’t working.

“Da—”

“Go pack a bag.”

“What?”

Nothing flickers over Da’s face. He’s stoic as he speaks.

“Go pack a bag, son.”

“Why?”

His arm strikes out, fisting his hand into my shirt. “If you don’t want to pack a bag, that’s fine. If you don’t want to take any souvenirs home, that’s fine.”

I shove him off me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He lets out a sharp whistle. Two of his soldiers appear in my flat. Da nods at one of them, and they head into my bedroom.

“What the fuck—” I’m grabbed from behind and pulled out. “You son of a bitch!”

Da’s face remains blank as I’m hauled out of my own flat. I throw my head back and am satisfied by the crunch it makes when I break the soldier's nose. But he’s well trained. He doesn’t break his hold on me. If anything, his arms grasp tighter as he pulls me down the stairs.

I’m thrown into a black SUV. The soldier opens the door, throwing in a bag that hits me square in the face. The fucking indignity burns into me.

My da gets in, as calm as can be, considering his son is using every curse word ever invented. It takes me a moment to understand why things feel weird in the car. Da’s gotten behind the wheel, and he’s left his soldiers, including the bloody one, at the curb while we barrel off into city traffic.

The door won’t open, and I’m tempted to try to bust the window, despite knowing it’s bulletproof. If those fuckers hadn’t taken my gun off me, I’d have more of a chance.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell at Da.

He uses his indicator, merging lanes.

Father-son relationships can be contemptuous in our lines of work. Heirs kill so they can claim the family business. Some fathers don’t let it get that far and prefer to take out the competition before then.

I’ve never been under any illusion that my father is a good man. He’s not even a decent father.

“Where the fuck are we going?” If he doesn’t answer me, I’ll bash his head in.

“Airstrip.”

“What? No. Pull the fuck over.”