Twisted (Never After #4)(3)
Besides, having Memfi Romano, a rumored capo of the Italian Mafia, stop by to personally drop off gifts for the holidays every year doesn’t really scream aboveboard.
To the majority of the world, though, my father simply specializes in selling the idea of love through overpriced jewels. The brand name alone is enough to wow, but add on the catchy taglines and the millions of dollars dumped in marketing every year that plaster Sultans diamonds all over TV and billboards, and he’s the quintessential poster boy for elegance and sparkle.
“Turn your love from in the rough to spectacular with a Sultans diamond.”
“I wouldn’t presume to know the ins and outs of my father’s business,” I say, emphasizing the word my purely for Julian’s benefit. “But if you’re asking for my opinion on the moral implications of continuing to trade diamonds in conflict areas, then I’m more than happy to give you my thoughts.”
Someone scoffs to my left, and my eyes are drawn back to Julian. His sharp jaw twitches, highlighting the five-o’clock shadow that accents his tan face.
Now it’s my turn to smirk, and I do, lifting the corner of my mouth as I glare at my father’s right-hand man. His eyes narrow, irritation splashing across his features like the flash of a camera. It makes me extremely satisfied to see that I’ve gotten under his skin with my remark, just the way I had hoped it would.
After all, I said the quiet part out loud, the part you’re never supposed to actually say.
Everyone at this table knows that regardless of slapping a “conflict-free” label on the diamonds Sultans sells, it doesn’t mean they’re actually conflict-free. They’re just… regulated. And I know my family’s business well enough to know that regulations are more of a smoke screen than an actuality. They have been ever since my grandfather immigrated from Lebanon and built Sultans from the ground up, forging relationships with whomever he needed in order to gain access to the diamond industry.
My father breaks the tension, chuckling. “These days, kids run off to university and think they’re ready to take on the world. This is just another example of why men should run the country and women should stay at home and care for the children.”
Heat sears my cheeks, and I peer back down at my lap as chuckles ring out around the table. I’m not truly embarrassed. I’m used to my father’s misogynistic rhetoric, and despite what he says, I know he loves me. He may not be a good man, but he’s always been good to me, and I love him despite his outdated ideas and less-than-savory business tactics.
It’s amazing what we’re capable of overlooking— what we’re willing to do— when it comes to those we love.
My father’s eyes soften as they take me in. “You’ll make a wonderful mother with that caring heart, habibti.”
The truth is, I don’t even want to be a mother. All I want to do is take pictures. But that’s not an acceptable career for the daughter of Ali Karam. I’m not sure any career would be acceptable. My father is happy as a peach knowing that I’m home for good and done with the “experience” of higher education.
Julian leans in and speaks to my father while the other dignitaries start up their superficial conversations that mean nothing and do nothing other than stroke their own egos, and just like that, the attention is off me. My phone vibrates again.
Aidan: I can’t wait to touch you
My fingers drift over my lips, excitement bubbling in my middle as I think of ways to escape this boring dinner and find Aidan. My foot taps against the marble floor of the dining room and I glance around, my insides fidgety.
I could probably leave without anyone even noticing.
But I don’t, because no matter how much I want to, the etiquette that’s been bludgeoned into my psyche since birth reigns supreme. It isn’t until dessert is finished and the men excuse themselves to my father’s cigar room that I press a hand against my head and feign a yawn.
“Are you all right, Yasmin?” Debbie asks, her copper brows drawing in.
The few other women left at the table— mostly wives, a few mistresses— look at me in mock concern.
“A headache, I’m afraid. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.” My eyes glance toward the hallway. “If you’ll excuse me.”
My fingers curl around the wood as I push back from the table and walk past the few estate staff clearing the dirty dishes, scanning to see if Aidan is one of them. He isn’t. I pull out my phone the second I’m around the corner, my fingers flying as I type out a message of where to meet, butterflies fluttering in my stomach.
Chapter 2
Julian
I swirl the Johnnie Walker Blue in my glass, the smell of books and tobacco filling the air as I lean against the ornate wooden table in Ali’s cigar room. The clock to the left chimes eleven times. It’s late, and everyone has finally left. Blowing out a breath, I sip my whiskey, a headache throbbing between my temples at having to wear the face of a dapper host.
Even though it isn’t my estate and it wasn’t my dinner, everyone knows that wherever Ali Karam is in name, I’m there in the background, pulling the strings. It’s tedious to put on soirees like the one tonight, but they’re essential. And never-ending.