The drive to Scarsdale takes half an hour, but it feels like five minutes.
My mind races the entire way, running through every possible reason Dad would shut off my cards. None of them are good.
Our estate sits on a sprawling property just outside Manhattan, a white stucco mansion with dark gray trim that exudes understated wealth. Tall windows gleam in the afternoon sun, the circular driveway lined with meticulously manicured hedges.
It’s the kind of house that would be featured on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.
I pull up and turn off the engine, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. For a moment I sit there, staring at the front door.
Whatever this is, I’ll handle it. I always do.
I’m the Public Relations Director of our company for a reason. I’m good with crises.
It’s sort of my super power. If another scandal is about to rock Langston Defense Solutions, I’ll think fast and come up with a plan to help Dad and the company out of it.
Inside, the staff greets me with warm words and bright smiles as I make my way through the marble foyer.
My cousin Karter is halfway down the hall, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand. He nods at me, but I don’t stop to chat. I’m on a mission.
Dad’s office is at the end of the corridor, the double doors imposing and solid. I knock once—more out of habit than courtesy—and push them open without waiting for a response.
He’s sitting on the leather sofa with Duchess, his Doberman, sprawled across his lap. Her sleek black coat gleams from the luxury salon care she’s given. She’s completely at ease, her eyes half closed as he scratches behind her ears.
The TV is on, playing sports highlights.
Dad looks up when I walk in, a warm smile spreading across his face. He’s dressed casually today, a pullover sweater and slacks, his afro-textured hair cut short and neat. His dark eyes shine with that familiar blend of affection and calculation.
“Princess,” he says, his baritone smooth and welcoming. “I thought that was your convertible tires screeching out front.”
I’m hardly amused. “What’s wrong? Is someone going to prison? Did someone die? What crisis am I solving this time?”
He laughs as if I’ve told a joke then gestures to the cushion beside him. “Sit down. There’s no crisis.”
I don’t move at first, still suspicious. “Then why did you shut off my cards?”
“It’s actually good news. Well… for the family. You might see it differently. But I know once I pitch you the big picture, you’ll understand.”
“What good news would possibly require cutting off my access to money? Much of whichI’veearned for the company, by the way.” I cross the room and slowly sink onto the edge of the leather sofa. Duchess lifts her head and repositions it on my lap, clearly hoping for scratches from me too. My nails gently rake behind her ears, and her short tail wags in approval.
“You’re aware of some of the threats we’re facing,” Dad begins matter-of-factly. “The Albanians. The Bratva. Rogue groups trying to weasel their way into the weapons black market and steal our thunder. LDS doesn’t have the capability to defend ourselves the way these crime organizations do—not if we want to keep our public reputation intact.”
I stroke Duchess’s head absently, nodding. “We need allies. Protection.”
“Exactly.” He leans back, folding his left leg so the ankle rests on his right knee, one arm draped casually over the back of the sofa. “I’m glad you understand why those things would be important, princess.”
“I’ve actually been thinking about who would be a good option, and the Italians would make for?—”
“I had something else in mind,” he interrupts. “In fact, I’ve already worked it out. The arrangement will be mutually beneficial for both groups. We’ll get the underground protection we need in the criminal world, and they’ll get legal protection in the civilized world. Which, given their recent trouble with the law, is much needed.” He pauses, looking way too pleased with himself. “It’s an equal trade. Ingenious, really.”
“And who would that be?” I ask, openly skeptical by how my brows sit high.
“The Irish Mob.”
I almost laugh. “The Irish Mob? They don’t have half the sophistication of the Italians. The Cosa Nostra?—”
“The Italians are not interested in this kind of deal,” he says, cutting me off again. “The Irish are. And to be frank, I don’t trust the Italians. Not after finding out they’re the Albanians’ biggest customers. They’d probably gut us from the inside, if anything.”
I frown, still not following. “I still don’t understand why my black card needed to be shut off.”