Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(34)

I stop in front of him and he smells like perfume. . “Good morning, son,” he says, not the least bit irritated that I wouldn’t allow him upstairs to an apartment he owns. But then, why would he? He dictated my presence.

“Your message is loud and clear, Father.”

“Do tell, son,” he says, a slight rasp to his voice I’ve never noticed before now. “What exactly is my message?”

“You’ll do what the hell you want and approval is the last thing you give a damn about.”

“Is this where you threaten to go back to New York again?” he asks, not denying or confirming my statement.

I give him an assessing stare. “I backed you in a corner over Derek and the pharmaceutical branch and you didn’t like it.”

He pushes off the wall and stands toe-to-toe with me. “That was a gift and consider it the last one you’ll get. Control your brother or go back to New York because somebody has to run this company when I’m gone.” He starts to turn and stops. “You’re wearing your weak spot like a badge of honor.”

He starts walking and I follow his progress, watching as he rounds the corner and for a moment after he disappears, I stare after him, a tight ball forming in my chest that I try to reject, but it just keeps getting bigger. I turn and jab the elevator button, the doors opening instantly. Stepping into the empty car, I hit the code to return to my floor, and I’m quickly sealed inside, that ball now a hot spot expanding in my chest. Son of a bitch. That wasn’t my father playing one of his head games. It was him, in his demented way, telling me the cancer is getting worse. Bringing that woman here was about pissing me off to avoid any pity I might throw his way.

Facing the wall, I press my fist against the wood, hanging my head, damn glad I have a few minutes alone to grapple with the razor blade of emotions cutting through me. I hate him and I love him. How is that even possible? The hate is justified, guilt-free in the past, but death, f*cking cancer, changes everything. I dig through my mind for a source of my love for him and I can’t even find a memory to cling to. And yet, I’m still in knots, still wearing guilt over my hate like a weighted glove.

The elevator dings and I shove off the wall, stepping out into the hallway, a mix of emotions driving my long strides. Anger. More guilt. More f*cking anger. I’m at my door and I barely remember the walk. The very idea of the woman inside, her smell, her taste, and the way she feels in my arms, calms a bit of the beast that is my emotions raging inside me. I enter my apartment—no, my father’s apartment, a matter I need to remedy now, not later—finding Emily absent from the bar where I expect her to be waiting. Her coffee is there though, and I reach for it, finding it untouched.

Scanning the kitchen and lower level, there is no sign of her presence. A bad feeling rolls through me and I glance toward the balcony, the rain splattering the window ruling out the idea she might be there. Listening, I look to the steps, but there is silence encasing me, and I know she is gone. And I know I’m going after her. I head for the door, exiting into the hallway, and I don’t stop until I’m at the elevator, inside the car, and punching the button for the lobby level. Perfectly still, I stand there, staring ahead, shoving that beast born of my emotions into a mental box to be analyzed at a more appropriate time. Right now, I have one agenda. Emily, who beyond reason, is important to me. Maybe it’s the timing of meeting her. Maybe it’s the hope and optimism in her eyes and her words that defies whatever she thinks has beaten her but I know has not. Whatever it is she does to me, I need it, which means I need her.

The elevator dings again, and I step to the doors, exiting the car the instant they part, and striding toward the front of the hotel.

“Good morning, Mr. Brandon,” someone murmurs.

I lift a hand, my gaze scanning for Emily, my approach to the front of the building never slowing. Finally, I reach the double glass doors, and they part, and I exit to find Tai just outside to my right, rain pounding the awning above us, splattering the ground beyond.

“Did you see Emily leave?” I ask him.

He looks baffled. “No sir. Should I have?”

“Did anyone else?” I ask, ignoring his question.

“I’m certain she didn’t come through the front of the building. Considering the weather, she’d have needed a car and I would have handled that for her.”

“If she didn’t come through here, where would she be?”

“This is the only exit other than the garage. She must still be in the building.”

The garage. Fuck me. “If she shows up, stall her and call me.”

“Of course,” he says, but I’m already giving him my back and entering the hotel again, my legs quickly eating up the space between me and my intended goal. I reach the elevators and opt for the stairs, heading down a level to the only floor allowing access to the street. Entering the garage, I scan and find no signs of Emily, and considering she’ll be walking in the rain, I head for my car, fully intending to search for her. Clicking the locks, I’m about to open the door, when I spy a note on the front window. I grab it and find the delicate scribble of a woman’s hand.

I’m too complicated. I can’t do that to you. I’m sorry.





Don’t let your tongue be your worst enemy.



—John Franzese