Antitype (5 page)

Dad looks up from where he sits angled in the corner of a dark leather couch, propped by striped pillows. He lays a tablet on the cushion beside him, and the way the letters are arranged on the screen, I deduce he's reading today's
Richmond Times.

“Noah. I thought you were at the office.”

I can usually blow by his automatic assumptions without a look back, but not today. He knows it's visiting day at the WTC. I'd bet my company shares on it. “We need to talk about Hannah.”

He pulls in a breath and bunches his lips, gaze falling to where his feet are propped on the coffee table. “If this is about Marco—”

“This has nothing to do with that unbelievably shortsighted decision and everything to do with her overall health.”

His feet land with a muffled
thump
on the thick green carpet. “I've read her monthly evaluations. They say she's perfectly suitable.”

Why am I surprised he hears “health” as a synonym for “suitable”? A laugh bursts from my chest. “What the hell do you all believe is ‘suitable'? Is it the fact that she can still spread her thighs? This is your daughter, and she's showing signs of a mental break.”

His eyes widen in a way that tells me the lights have turned on. He leans forward. “Is this about her memory lapses?”

I blink. “You knew?”

He waves a hand. “It's in her evaluations.”

“And”—I shrug—“you aren't concerned at all?”

“She's just tired. I'm told a lot of the girls get nervous around this time, and she goes to show next month. Ridiculous that I have to put her through it, but the law is the law. She's lucky Marco is willing to pay—”

“You really are a bastard.”

Dad jumps to his feet. “You can't begin to understand what it's like to be a father. You—”

I take the nearest statue and slam it down, erection first, on his preposterously large desk. Large chunks of stone shatter and fly off the sides and plop on the floor. The wood splinters at the impact site.

“You aren't a father,” I yell. “A father would make sure his girls are taken care of, and I'm not talking about marriage. You have no idea how much money I pay to make sure they have everything they need when they need it. Toiletries. Uniforms. Shoes. Socks. Undergarments. Did you know Hannah didn't get her first bra until she was fifteen? And I bought it for her. I have two guards on payroll to make sure they aren't abused. I shouldn't have to do things like that, Dad.
You
should.”

His face turns a fiery shade of crimson, and a visible shiver moves his otherwise frozen state. “How dare you. You're not too old for me to—”

“To what?” I throw up my arms. “Disown me? Take away my trust fund? Kick me out of the company?” I laugh. “That threat died in April the second I turned twenty-five. I'm in full control of my trust, and I own shares you can't take without buying me out first. As for disowning me? Do it. See if I care anymore.”

I storm from the room before he can argue. There's only one person who will hear me out and understand my plight. I have to talk to Nathan Updike.

On my way to the teleporter, I cross paths with Gabe, who still lives at home. His hair hangs loose over his forehead and is practically in his eyes. He has an apple clamped between his teeth and a tablet computer in one hand and is juggling an open textbook on engine propulsion in the other.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

Gabe flips the book shut and takes the apple from his mouth. “Studying.”

That single word in conjunction with the book he carries has the power to blow me over. Since when did Gabe take a serious interest in the engineering area of our business? And by the looks of it, he's halfway through the text. Maybe I've been wrong about him. Maybe he'll be just the man to take over the business. Maybe I don't have to worry so much about leaving him to handle things in my place. Maybe . . . I have more options than I once believed.

“Where've you been?” he asks, scanning my T-shirt and jeans. “Clearly not the office.”

Maybe not.
He's becoming more and more like Dad every day. “It's visiting day.” I don't have the heart, nor do I have the strength, to get into what's going on with Hannah. Not with people who can't help me anyway. I'll just save my breath until I find Nate.

Gabe bends back with a groan. “Fuck. Me. Damn it. I meant to go with you today, too. Why didn't you remind me?”

“Because I'm not your personal assistant, or your parent.”

“Did you tell Hannah about Marco?”

“No, and you won't, either. Listen, I have to go.” I nod at the heavy tome he balances. “Keep that up and I just might change my opinion about you.” I grin as I head for the teleporter.

“As if you want to,” he calls after me. “You know you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

 • • • 

Nate meets me at Nagshead Park outside downtown Richmond. It's one of my favorite places to go when I need to clear my head. A public teleporter opens to the park's center, where a pond sparkles under a footbridge. At least three acres of green hillocks surround the pond and walking trails.

I lean on the railing over the water, listening to the
clomp
of boots heading toward me. I stare at my linked hands, and past that, the ripples of water.

He sidles up beside me and mirrors my stance. “Got your message.”

I suck in a thin breath. “Does the raid have to happen in September? Can we go earlier?”

“Something wrong?”

Twisting to face him, I tell him what went down with Hannah. How thin she looked. How tired. I finish with the short bursts of memory loss. “If something happens to Hannah . . . Paige is thirteen, but I can't ask her to look after the younger two. I need them out.”

Updike's head lowers, chin nearly to his chest. “I wish I could help, Noah.”

I knew he was going to say that. “Is this because I'm still on the fence?”

He straightens and faces me. “No. I'm giving you the same answer I'd give any other man in my unit.” His lips purse. “And since we're on the subject . . . have you decided?”

“You promised me time.”

“And if you're playing me to get you through September's raid—”

“I'm not. I swear, I'm not.” I rake my hands through my hair.

I've lain awake many a night in the last month wondering why I stay. Am I not passively accepting the status quo by supporting my father, preparing almost daily to head his company? I'm killing myself to keep my sisters safe, but what about the girls without a family? Who's helping them?

“I'm reluctant to leave my life here, but I'm no longer so sure I want it.”

Declan

I stare at the afternoon traffic passing on the projected window in Dad's office. Stare past it, really. The day started off like they all do and in just a few short hours has turned into a nightmare.

“I'm seconds from ending this right now and handing everything over to Jacob,” Dad says behind me.

I'm completely out of fuel at this point, unable to argue the matter any longer. I'm weighed down by guilt, anger, and frustration. I didn't do anything wrong. And more important, neither did Giovanni.

I fist my hands at my sides. “Did you have to take his restaurant, Dad?”

“It wasn't the plan, but he refused to see things my way.”

I turn from the projected cityscape. Dad faces me without an ounce of uncertainty. Without an ounce of remorse. I wish I knew what it would take to change that. I would strike, and strike hard. “He refused to fire me, so you stole his business. How is that fair?”

Dad rests his hands on his hips. His black suit jacket opens to reveal the red lining, flaring the flaps like angry butterfly wings. His head clicks forward, then back, then forward as if his neck is loosely hinged. “You want to talk about fair? I asked you to devote your summer to me. Not split your focus with a restaurant that can only be described as average.”

“It's a five-star restaurant.”

He continues, undaunted, hands flying into the air. “Do you think I
want
to take these things from you? How am I supposed to trust you with my company?”

“You're right,” I say and nod once. “I messed up.” Any excuse I have won't be heard, so I won't waste my breath. “Just don't take it out on Giò. He doesn't deserve this.”

“You should have thought of that before. Every action has a consequence, Declan. Remember that.”

Dad's personal assistant, Piper, steps into the office, a tablet hugged to her chest. Her skirt and blouse are pressed, and not a hair of her tight bun is out of place. “Your teleconference begins in two minutes.”

Dad starts out of the room without a second's hesitation.

“Dad, we need to talk about Giovanni's.”

He calls over his shoulder, “It's done. Live with it.”

I collapse on the love seat and let my head fall back with a sigh. This is all my fault. But how do I make it up to the man who's done so much for me? I have no money, and by the time I do, it'll be too late. Giò has to make a living, and he can't pay his bills on promises from an eighteen-, almost nineteen-year-old kid.

The witch's cackle that's become a grate on my skin over the last two months bubbles from the open doorway. Jacob leans against the frame, arms folded, a sparkle in his eye. He's sporting a new short haircut that hides his unruly curls, and he's finally wearing a suit that fits.

“That couldn't have gone better if I'd planned it myself,” he says, smile twitching. “Oh, wait, I did.”

I sit up in a snap. “What did you say?”

“I've been following you for a while,” he says, straightening. “It was just a matter of when I'd tell your father.”

I cross the room, my chest heaving hard and fast, my face growing hot. “Is rolling over a friend and ruining a man's life how you plan on winning my inheritance?”

Jacob gives me a half smile and pats the outside of my arms, his gaze traveling up and down my suit. “This isn't personal, Dec.”

“It sure as hell isn't business.”

His chest jumps on a silent laugh. “Of course it is. You'd do the same to me if the roles were reversed.”

I scowl, considering how I should play this. I could punch him or I could stand here and argue all day. But the fact that he's having fun with this situation means he'd be happy with either choice. I'd play right into his game.

I shoulder past him to the exit. “Actually, I wouldn't, which just goes to prove the kind of man you are.”

 • • • 

I'm not sure why Dad wants me tagging along to the WTC with him and Evan Thomas. I'm not surprised by Mr. Thomas's presence. Not really. He's Dad's closest adviser and friend. He's got a nice handful of shares in Burke Enterprises, too. Dad says that how Mr. Thomas came about his piece of the company is an interesting story and that one day he'll tell me. I guess that's contingent on my taking over.

The older men ignore me, speaking in hushed tones as we walk down the quiet halls. It isn't a show or visiting day, so the girls are in class. We stroll past several rooms with full desks. The walls are half-glass, allowing us a near unobstructed view. A guard stands sentry in the back, while a 3-D hologram image of a woman stands and lectures from the front. She's a standard feature in all classrooms, and capable of answering only the most basic of questions. Friends of mine used to ask her crazy things just so she'd repeat herself over and over and over:
Your question has no answer. Please rephrase and try again
.

Dad and Mr. Thomas find the head administrator, Jerome Zimmerman, outside one of these identical classrooms, staring inside. The girls are all my age, dressed in varying states of distressed gray linen.

Zimmerman forgoes a greeting and motions inside the room. “First two rows go to show this month. Rows three and four in September.”

“This is all of them?” Dad asks, then glances askance at me.

“Third row,” Mr. Thomas says.

Dad and I look past our images in the glass to the indicated row. I've looked into many of these classrooms over the years, and I'm numb to the way these girls look now. Or I thought I was. One girl in particular sits straight-backed behind her desk, hands linked over the top. Her slick dark hair hangs in a low ponytail, and her uniform is one of the most worn in the room, which means she has no family to provide for her.

What she wears doesn't matter. She makes my heart pick up its sluggish pace. Full, pink lips. Arched brows. A tiny nose. High cheekbones. She's too thin, but nothing a few hot meals won't fix.

She appears to stare forward, but in reality, her round eyes glare sideways at two girls laughing under their breath. Casually, she looks back at the guard, finds his attention elsewhere, then slams a fist in the closest girl's thigh. She mouths,
Shut the fuck up,
before staring forward again.

I smirk. Beautiful and feisty.

Dad grunts beside me. I have no idea what we're supposed to be looking at, but apparently he does. “Good.” He looks at Mr. Zimmerman. “The paperwork is—”

A girl flies to her feet in the first row. She spins in a tight circle, grabbing clumps of black hair near her temples. Her eyes are wide, and very clearly an incredible shade of blue. “What's happening?” she cries. “How did I get here?”

The guard rushes to the front of the room, and so do several of the girls. The one I had been watching reaches her first. “It's okay, Hannah,” she says. “You and I walked in together, remember?”

“Everyone back to your seats,” the guard yells.

Hannah stares at her friend in such a desperate way that I expect she'll fish whatever truth she's forgetting right out of the other girl's head. But I'll never know. The guard snatches Hannah away and she folds like a cloth doll.

Mr. Zimmerman enters the room and we hear his muffled order through the glass. “Take her to the infirmary. Tell Dr. Glass it's time to make a decision.” Back in the hall, he resumes his conversation with Dad as if nothing happened. “You were asking about the paperwork? I have everything prepared and in my office.”

Dad and Mr. Zimmerman start off, but Mr. Thomas stares inside a second longer. I follow his gaze. Five girls, including Hannah's feisty friend, watch the guard carry her out. The girl stands as if the head of a triangle, erect, strong, and mighty, while the others hunch, spare quiet tears, and whisper.

“She's a strong one,” Mr. Thomas says and nods at the same girl I've been watching. A corner of his mouth ticks up. “Good for her.”

 • • • 

Mitch hands me a chilled beer glass. A half inch of foam layers the top of the amber liquid. Behind him, the pool water reflects a high, cloudless sun, and a woman in a blue uniform trims rosebushes. We couldn't have asked for a more perfect Sunday afternoon to have lunch.

“Poor girl,” Mitch says, sitting beside me. He finger combs his hair back with a spare hand. “She just broke down out of nowhere?”

“Yeah. And Zimmerman acted as if she was a nuisance.”

I envy the ease of the smile he tilts my way, as well as the day's worth of beard shadow. “Don't take this the wrong way,” he says, “but since when do you care?”

“I've always cared. Dad just asks me not to.”

He nods once and squints past the water. “He's probably right, you know? Makes it easier to walk away.”

I haven't walked away yet, but I know what he means. When I leave for Italy next month, I'm essentially doing just that. Every step forward in that direction is one away from this life. Dad. The company. The responsibilities to . . . all of it. All of them.

I sip my beer, then set it on the side table between us. “Anyway. I saw this girl there today. Fearless. Beautiful.”

Mitch leans forward and twists to face me. A flare of interest brightens his expression. “Uh-oh. Does this mean you're going to the show this month?”

“No,” I say almost too quickly. “Even if I wanted to, she isn't showing until September. And no”—I point a finger at him—“I didn't ask. The information was provided in a natural setting.” I circle a fingertip around the rim of my glass, watching the foam crawl down the inside. “All the way home I wondered what it would be like. With her. And going to Italy doesn't mean . . .” I trail off and shrug.

Mitch leans back and sighs. Stares at the pool several feet away. “A couple months ago, I would have told you we're too young. Just because our fathers started early doesn't mean we have to. It's not like we're on a time limit, right?”

“The longer we're able to procreate, the better,” I say, mimicking my dad's voice.

Mitch chuckles and glances over. “If you think you might like this girl, go to the show next month.”

I wonder if I'll ever get over how stunned I am to see him like this. Happy. Carefree. I haven't seen his naturally angry-looking eyebrows bunch once since the honeymoon. “You really are happy with Ella, aren't you?”

“I love her. And”—he winces, but a smile tugs at his mouth—“she's going to have my baby. A boy.”

“A son.” My voice comes out breathy with surprise, but I can't help but smile. Under a swell of happiness twists an emotion I've been trying to ignore. The last thing I want to give credence to is my jealousy for what Mitch has. How lucky he is to have a beautiful wife, and now a son on the way. His life has started.

We stand and hug each other. He claps my back before we part.

“Mind if we join you?” asks a boisterous voice.

I cast a look behind me. Abel Gaines walks down a set of stairs with a smiling Ella on his arm. She wears a red sundress, and her dark waves catch on a gust of wind.

I hug her when they reach us. “Congratulations,” I tell her.

She beams around me at her husband. “Thank you.”

“Take my seat,” I say, maneuvering her over.

I then stand beside Abel, who rocks a little on the balls of his feet. His cheeks look pink and he can't stop smiling at Mitch. This is what fatherly pride looks like.

“Did Mitch tell you the rest?” Abel asks.

“No,” I say, catching Mitch's gaze.

Mitch looks between the three of us and shifts his weight ever so slightly in his seat. “I've decided to specialize in criminal law.”

“And,” Abel continues for him, “he's going to join me at the firm after he graduates.”

This is the last thing Mitch wants. Like me, he's wanted a life free of his father's legacy. He wants to be a lawyer, but not with his father's firm. He's been ashamed of Abel his entire adult life.

Mitch can't meet my eyes, and the line between his brows is no longer absent. The crease is his most prominent feature now. Ella reaches over to give his knee a reassuring squeeze.

Abel starts to go on but freezes. “I'm getting a call. Excuse me.” He taps his ear on his way back to the house. “Gaines here.”

I gape at Mitch. “What the hell happened?”

His shrug belies the tension in his expression. “I need to provide for my family.”

Ella twists toward him. “Don't sacrifice yourself for me or our son. You'll find another way.”

Mitch looks up at me. “I need money to open my own firm. Working for Dad will help me earn what I need. Once I have enough, I'll get out.”

“Or you'll get stuck,” I say. “He represents criminal organizations, Mitch.”

He points his empty beer glass at me before setting it down. “Very wealthy criminal organizations.”

“Who do more harm than good to this country,” I say. “Come on. There has to be another way.”

“You think I want to do this? Give me an alternative.”

“Work for another firm.”

He scoffs. “Dad'll blackball me before another firm makes it to my shortlist.”

I can't explain it, but I'm desperate for him to tell his dad to go to hell. Mitch is a lot like me. If he can give in to the pressure so easily, will I? What pushed him over the ledge?

“What happened to you?” I ask. My question sounds judgmental and accusatory, but I have to know because I have to avoid the same collision. My entire future depends on it.

Mitch's jaw tightens, and he takes a deep breath before responding. “Talk to me when you marry that girl and have a child on the way. Until then, stay out of it.”

The snap in his tone whips me as good as any actual flogging.

Mitch leans forward and scrubs his face. “You've been my best friend since we could dig worms out of the dirt, Declan. You've stood by me no matter what.” He looks up at me. “Stand by me now. And if it comes to the point where I need to work with Dad, keep me grounded.” He looks at Ella, who gives him a soft smile. “Keep me . . .
me.
”