Jesus fucking Christ.
“Hey! Lower the—”
Boom. Boom.
I shove the door open and rush into the house to see Commodore aiming for a second shot from his motorized chair. Blood drips down his face.
“Missed me, you bastard!”
“Sir, you’re bleeding!”
Goose hops up off the boards of the deck and trots toward me. The damn dog is a hell of a lot less concerned by the guns being fired than I am.
Commodore shakes his head, splattering blood on the leather armrest. “Shrapnel. Just a scratch. Gable’s buckshot took a chunk out of the goddamn house. Now I’m gonna break his windows.”
“Cease fire or I’m calling the cops on both of you!” I yell loud enough so there’s no way Magnus can’t hear me, even being partially deaf.
“You raised a pussy, Riscoff!” Magnus yells. “My kin would grab a gun and join in!”
I pull out my cell phone, not in the mood to get shot this morning. “Last chance before I dial the sheriff.”
Commodore shoots me a cutting look. “Put the damn phone away. You’re making me look bad.” Blood streams down the side of his face, turning his white beard red.
“Here’s the deal—you put the feud on hold for first aid and business, and then you two can go back to shooting each other all you want after I’m gone.”
Commodore’s glare would frighten the piss out of a lesser man, but I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I’m not about to let Magnus Gable put a bullet in him today, not when I’m still working out my strategy for going after his grand-niece.
Commodore wipes the blood away from his face and looks down at his hand. “Superglue and duct tape are in the kitchen drawer. I don’t need no damn first-aid kit. And mind yourself when you’re talking to me. You don’t run me, son. I run you. Don’t forget it.”
My jaw clenches at the reminder. “Maybe I should just let the two of you kill each other, and then I’d have a hell of a lot less problems to deal with.”
Commodore sputters as I head for the kitchen.
I respect the man and the sacrifices he made to get Riscoff Holdings to where it is today, but he’s living in the past, and by staying there, we’re not going to thrive. I spent last night reviewing information on the acquisition I want to make, not only because I was trying to keep my mind off Whitney, but also because we have to diversify again. Otherwise, we’re going to wither instead of flourish.
Commodore isn’t going to like it. I already know it, but I need his sign-off to enter the auction process to get our hands on one of the most lucrative new tech companies that has the intellectual property we need to revolutionize the next generation of transportation.
I grab a handful of paper towels and yank open drawers in the kitchen to find the old man’s supplies. What he needs is a keeper. The last drawer holds a bunch of papers and odds and ends. Superglue is at the front, and I grab and pull out the documents to dig for the duct tape.
I still when my gaze catches on a letter falling out of a manila envelope—with my father’s name at the top.
What the hell?
I forget all about the two old men with shotguns pointed at each other and pull it out. Five words stand out in stark relief.
Request for a paternity test
What the fuck?
I scan the rest of the document. It’s dated three months ago. The letterhead says it’s from a lawyer’s office in New York. They want a DNA sample ... from my deceased father.
Fuck the superglue and the duct tape. Commodore can bleed until he tells me what the hell this is about and why he hasn’t mentioned it. I grip the letter and stalk out to the deck, my back to Magnus Gable’s house.
“What the fuck is this?” I hold up the paper. “Who wants a paternity test?”
Commodore lowers his shotgun to rest on his lap and turns the chair to face me. “Put that back.”
“Not a chance. You need to tell me what the hell is going on. If there’s someone who’s trying to take a piece of the family holdings because they think it’s a get-rich-quick scheme, our lawyers need to shut it down as quick as possible.”