Mended (Connections, #3)(79)

Love, Your Grandfather

I unfold the thickly folded pieces of paper and read the bottom line—he’s left me half of Sheep Industries. I stare in disbelief. I stand up with a huge grin on my face.

“Xander, where are you going?” my mother asks.

I look at her. “To take back what’s mine. Do you know where the funeral is taking place?”

? ? ?

The afternoon sun is warm on my face. I take a left turn and slam right into the congested part of the city. I quickly change lanes, wishing I had my own car because every time I accelerate, this little putt-putt car goes nowhere. Exiting the highway, I see a steady line of cars pulling into Evergreen Cemetery. The media are following right behind, but a police barricade turns them away. I turn on my headlights and slip into the funeral procession without a problem. Once I’m in, I ease off toward the east side of the cemetery with the processional cars heading south. I park and watch as men in suits and women in dresses spill from their automobiles. They’re all engaged in their own conversations as they walk through the cemetery to Josh Wolf’s final resting place. I watch the pallbearers pull the casket from the black hearse and an uneasiness creeps through me. I didn’t know the man lying in the long rectangular box, but he was my grandfather and he left me half of his company.

I sit in the car and watch until everyone assembles for the burial ceremony. Once everyone has gathered, I see him. He stands front and center—smug, black suit, sunglasses, and a rose in his hand. Fuck, a rose. I laugh to myself, thinking Roses are so cliché. Getting out of the car, I lean against the door and just watch. The sound of his muffled voice courses through my body and lures me closer. From a distance I watch as people with tearstained faces throw roses on top of the casket. The ceremony is soon over and everyone seems to disperse quickly. I take the opportunity to blend into the crowd and make my way toward Damon. His bodyguard is a few feet away and I wonder why he has one—I thought he had hired the ninja for Ivy.

Weaving through the tombstones that will last far longer than the lives they mark, I near the gravesite. The casket is resting in the hollowed-out earth and Damon stands next to it talking to a silver-haired woman dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. As soon as I approach, the ninja is on me. Damon excuses himself and with a staggered gait that can only be for show, he confronts me. Through gritted teeth he says, “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to you.” There’s a calm control to my voice that I’m surprised by, considering I want to pound the shit out of him and bury him in the hole.

He’s glaring at me through his sunglasses. His hate for me is so apparent. “This is my father’s funeral. How dare you show up here!” His blood pressure must be out of control because his face turns beet red.

My eyes hold his. “Meet me in your office in one hour. Alone.”

“Why would I do that?” He flinches, trying to find his composure.

“Because you and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins at an uncontrollable speed, “have business to discuss.”

He works his jaw. “Go to hell.”

Before walking away, I sneer and say, “That’s where you’ll be if you don’t meet me.”

? ? ?

Rush hour is barely beginning as I approach the city. With one hand I grip the wheel; with the other, I verify the address. I know where I’m going, but I want to be sure. Taking the next left, I pull into an underground garage but decide not to take the elevator leading straight into the building. I want to see it from the outside. I take my time entering the large black marble building with gilded doors. The number reads “1619” and the words above the door spell out SHEEP INDUSTRIES in big block letters. Entering the lobby of the building that is home to most of Sheep Industries’ holdings—Little Red, Front Line Management, and House Records, I’m not surprised at what I see. The lobby is nothing less than posh. Several seating areas span the vast area in color variations on the building itself—golds, whites, and blacks. Plaques, certificates, and various recognitions cover an entire lobby wall. The reception desk in the middle of the jet-black marble floor is the home to three women, all with headphones hooked over their ears. I approach them with a strange trepidation—this building, these furnishings, the businesses under this roof are half mine. I’m connected to them by a bloodline I never knew flowed through my veins.

Approaching the oldest of the women, who’s wearing a black blouse and has short gray hair, I smile and say, “Hi, I’m Xander Wilde, and I’m here to see Damon Wolf.”

She almost cracks a smile but keeps her businesslike demeanor. “Yes, Mr. Wilde, he’s expecting you. Take the elevator to the twelfth floor and his receptionist will show you the way from there.”

“Thank you,” I reply and then make my way to the elevator. My nerves start to pop and my legs seem to be shaking—what the hell am I nervous about? Stepping into the elevator, I can only think, Keep your poker face on, mean what you say, and own it. The doors close and I close my eyes. The doors open and I’m not even paying attention until the bell dings. I snap my eyes open and hustle out of there. Game on.

My fingertips tap the dark wood of the reception desk and a cute redheaded girl smiles at me. “You must be Mr. Wilde. Flo told me you were on your way to see Mr. Wolf. Let me show you in. I’ve already told him you had arrived.”