“Three hundred thousand dollars. Cold, hard cash.”
The breath punched out of my lungs and left me gasping. I didn’t have that kind of money. Dad certainly didn’t either.
“For what?” I replied, incredulous.
“Oh, I can’t tell you that, lamb. Your father said it was private. He needed money, and I was willing to oblige.”
My mind reeled with this information. I had to stall for time.
“Well, as long as Dad is in the hospital, you’ll just have to wait,” I said.
Sweeney sucked his teeth in dismay.
“Oh, pet. That’s the wrong answer. Because I laid out the terms of my loan very clearly to your dear old Da. He knew exactly what he was agreeing to. If he can’t pay what he owes, his debt falls to his family. That would be you. And your mother. Her stepdaughters are growing into beautiful young ladies.”
A lump formed in my throat. Mom and I weren’t exactly close these days. We didn’t even spend the holidays together. Our lives were too different, and I think she felt betrayed that I sided with my dad instead of her during the divorce.
But I didn’t want anything happening to her. Or my stepsisters. Even if we had nothing in common.
“You have forty-eight hours,” Sweeney said. “Don’t force my hand, Lila. Be a good girl and get me my money, or I’ll have to hurt that pretty, perfect body of yours. And then I'll pay a visit to your mother."
I growled, fighting back afuck youthat burned on the tip of my tongue. Sweeney chuckled. My blood boiled at his amusement.
Then he hung up. I stood in the parking lot alone, with the weight of my father’s secret debt resting on my shoulders.
What did he need three hundred thousand dollars for? Why didn’t he tell me about it? Why did he feel so desperate that he would turn to Sweeney of all people? And where could I possibly come up with that much money in just two days?
As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t do this alone.
I needed help. I needed to tell the Reckless Order what was going on.
And I didn’t want Dad to hear a word about it. His health was fragile enough already. The additional stress wouldn’t do him any good. I knew how he would react if he found out that Sweeney had threatened me—his one and only daughter. He would be out of that hospital bed in a heartbeat, even if his body crumpled.
“Is everything okay?”
I whirled around to see Pretty Boy as he exited the hospital. I clutched my phone, swallowing hard.
Since we were kids, Matteo "Pretty Boy" Rossi was always around, like a thorn in my side. Deep down, I was jealous of him in a way, filling the role of my father’s protégé that I never could.
Sure, I was Dad’s daughter, his flesh and blood. But Pretty Boy was a potential successor, an heir to the club Presidency.
I wanted to hate him. Properly, deeply, truly hate him, from the pit of my soul.
Instead, the urge to sink into his arms and cry my eyes out overwhelmed me.
Pretty Boy stood there, waiting for my response with a wariness in his eyes and a tension in his muscles like he was prepared to spring into action at any moment. His stupid pecs stretched the fabric of his shirt tight across his chest. His chocolate brown curls were smoothed back into a knot at the base of his neck.
And he studied me with those hazel eyes. Even in the crowded clubhouse, his eyes always managed to find me, like a homing missile. Target acquired and locked in.
“You should stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” I said, marching past him.
Pretty Boy caught my arm. I tried to pull away but he held on tighter. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make me stay for a moment longer.
“Hey,” he said, quiet but firm. “If you want to talk about your dad—”
“I don’t. And certainly not with you. Now let go of me.”
Pretty Boy released my arm. I dashed into the waiting room, eager to put distance between us while the heat of his palm lingered on my skin.