“Because of the girl?”
“Because of all of us.” I turned back to face her. “I blackmailed her, Mom. Coerced her into—” I couldn’t finish, couldn’t say it out loud to my mother. “I became exactly what he made me. And then I killed him to save her. Now, she’s alone in the hospital, recovering from surgery, and I don’t deserve to kiss the ground she walks on.”
Mom finished whatever she was doing on her phone and looked at me with an eyebrow raised. “Is she alone because she wants to be, or because you want her to be?”
Fuck. Dr. Rivera had asked me the same thing yesterday. Alek had gently suggested therapy might be helpful along with the sober group I met with a few times a week. I’d stayed sober this long; might as well try to figure out why I was so fucked up.
“It’s the right decision,” I said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Anger flared, hot and defensive. “What do you want me to say? That I should show up at her hospital room and what? Apologize? Beg? Tell her I love her after everything I did? She deserves better than three fucked-up hockey players who used her like?—”
“Like your father used people,” my mother finished quietly. “I told myself the same thing,” she continued. “That you deserved better than a mother who couldn’t protect you from him. So I almost didn’t come back.” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “But I’m so glad I’m here.”
We stood there in the empty apartment, years of abandonment and survival hanging between us.
“I’m seeing a therapist,” I said finally, “twice a week.”
My mother’s expression softened. “Good.”
“She keeps asking me whose choice I’m protecting. Mine or Eva’s.” I sank to the floor.
My mother sat beside me, possibly the most casual I’d ever seen her.
“What if she hates me?” The words came out raw and broken. “What if I walk in there, and she looks at me and sees him?”
My mother took my hand. “What if she doesn’t? What if she gets to decide for herself what she sees?”
My phone buzzed again.
“There’s a board meeting tomorrow,” I said.
My mother nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
“Mom—”
“I didn’t fly across an ocean to leave you to face his legacy alone.” Her voice was steel. “He started the company with my inheritance. We’ll do this together.”
The conference roomoverlooked Manhattan like my father’s own personal kingdom. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Mahogany table. Leather chairs that cost more than most people’s cars. Twelve board members in expensive suits, waiting to dissect what was left of Jedediah Carter’s empire.
My mother waited in the lobby downstairs. I’d told her she didn’t need to come up. She’d insisted on being close.
I walked in wearing jeans and a Yorkfield Hockey sweatshirt. Let them fucking judge.
“Mr. Carter.” The CFO—Gerald, I thought—stood. “Thank you for coming. We have much to discuss.”
I took my father’s seat at the head of the table, because that was what they expected. The leather was still warm from whoever had sat here during the last meeting, trying to hold this thing together.
“Investors want reassurance. We need to know if you’re taking over operations, or if we should begin transition planning,” Gerald continued.
Spreadsheets appeared on the screen behind him, numbers so large, they looked fake, listing our real estate holdings, entertainment ventures, and a million restaurants, clubs, and other businesses. It had all been supported by my father’s sports gambling operation, now absorbed by the bratva, leaving only the shakiest of foundations for me to inherit, no matter what the board might think was left.
“Your father built this for you,” another board member said, a woman whose name I should know.
I stared at the numbers. Thought of Eva in a hospital bed. Thought of Tristan losing his shot at the NHL. Thought of Alek joining the bratva. Thought of every life my father had crushed building this monument to his own ego.
“Your father’s second-in-command has been managing day-to-day operations,” Gerald said. “But we need leadership and long-term vision—a Carter at the helm.”