We speed up the Franklin Avenue off-ramp as rain hits the windshield hard. Carina sits next to me, arms folded, legs crossed, completely silent. Up front, Enzo watches the lightning over Brooklyn, clearly enjoying my meltdown. Vic, my driver, keeps his hands steady on the wheel, focused on getting us through the last ten blocks to my penthouse.
I could kill her. That’s not true. I could kill him, the Russian, destroy everything he cares about, make him pay. I sit in the glow of the city lights, replaying what just happened in that club.
Nothing is ever subtle in Brooklyn Heights, especially the Red Room, a former warehouse now filled with velvet, mirrors, and soundproofing. Enzo and I went there to get Carina, but found Anton Lukov’s hand on her bare thigh, his grin wide and smug. I told Anton, in front of his brother and three others, that if he touched my daughter again, he’d need a catheter for the rest of his life.
“You’re not even going to ask me what I was doing?” Carina finally says, her full lips pursed like a dare.
“You were being a fucking child,” I say. “That’s what you were doing.”
She flashes her teeth. “How would you know? You haven’t been a child since the Carter Administration.”
Enzo snorts. He’s never met a mutiny he wouldn’t applaud.
“Don’t encourage her,” I bark at him, but he barely blinks.
“Carina,” I say, slow enough that she can hear the rage between the syllables, “tell me what you’re doing with Anton Lukov in the Red Room.”
“God, Dad. Why do you care?” She turns to me, blue eyes lit up with the pretty, reckless defiance that got her mother hospitalized three times before the divorce.
“You know why,” I say, but the words taste like blood and old church wine.
She scoffs. “Right. Because the Russians are ‘a threat’ and I’m just a pawn. I heard you the first thousand times.”
“Careful,” I say, and my voice is suddenly so cold that for a second, even Enzo’s smirk dissolves.
Carina shakes her head. “You made the whole world my enemy, and now you’re surprised I want to see what the other side is like?”
My hands twitch, wanting to break something. The urge is so strong that when Vic hits the curb, I use the jolt to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge forward.
I don’t touch her. I never would. But my shadow stretches across the seat, and she gasps; that’s enough for me. “That place isn’t for you,” I say, my voice rough. “Those people aren’t for you. Do you hear me?”
She lifts her chin. “You can’t keep me away from everything you hate, Dad. Not when it’s the only thing that makes me feel… real.”
The SUV goes quiet. The rain outside gets louder.
Enzo tries to cut the tension. “Carina, your father once made a guy eat fifty bucks in singles for calling me a ‘mosquito.’ Not everything is worth bleeding for. That Lukov kid? Even his family thinks he’s trouble.”
Carina doesn’t take her eyes off me. “I don’t care about his family. I care about someone who’s not terrified of the person I might be if I weren’t a Morrone.”
For a moment, I see her the way she wants: free from me, free from the pull of this city and its rules. It makes me want to break the glass, get out, and shout her name into the night.
Instead, I say, “You’re not seeing him again.”
She laughs—hard, loud, mean. “Yeah, sure.”
The car stops at the private lobby entrance. The security guard is already outside, holding an umbrella for me as if I’m someone important.
I step out. The rain is cold and sharp. Carina follows, her coat over her dress, heels clicking with every step. By the time we reach the elevator, I can barely stay calm. My heart pounds and I’m shaking in a way I haven’t felt since my last trip to Italy.
The penthouse is completely silent. Bruno must be out or hiding in his room. Carina heads straight to her part of the apartment and slams the door so hard the chandeliers rattle.
I turn to Enzo. “She’s going to destroy herself.”
He shrugs. “She’s got your spine. You should be proud.”
I wish he’d just clock me on the chin.
“Pour me a drink,” I say, and walk to the living room.