And this man, my tormentor and enemy, set me free from the chains of secrecy.
“Quiet.” Once again, Asad doesn’t yell, but that even, almost soft tone shuts everyone up. And quickly. He looks at his mother and girlfriend. “Sit down. Now.”
They instantly obey him, and even with how annoyed anddoneI am, amusement trickles through me.
“I apologize for our rudeness at your table, Prince,” NaokiSato says. “Your… announcement has taken most of us by surprise. I wasn’t aware Marcus had biological children. In the years we’ve been associates, he never mentioned a daughter. I only knew of you and Kareem.”
“Which brings us to the next question that everyone in this bitch is too scared to ask,” Carter Williams spits, his face balled into a disgusted mug. “What in the hillbilly incest is going on here? How’re you marrying your sister?”
If it wasn’t for the street boss’s disrespectful tone or the coldness that seems to seep from Asad’s pores as Carter speaks, I would’ve laughed. I mean, he’s not wrong. At first glance, this does seem like someDeliverance-banjo bullshit.
Since Asad is standing, I sink into his chair. Taking myself out the line of fire.
“This is the one and only time I’ma explain this because I don’t owe a muthafucka a gotdamn thing.” He pauses, his frigid gray gaze sweeping the table. “Ember is Marcus’s daughter from his first wife, who died when she was twelve. He married Michelle shortly after, making him my and Kareem’s stepfather, not biological parent. Why Marcus chose to not expose Ember’s identity is his business and, with him in the ground, something he can’t explain. Doesn’t that satisfy your questions?”
Not by any stretch of the imagination is he asking an inquiry; Asad is telling them itbettersatisfy their curiosity and to drop the shit.
Though I loathe my stepbrother, I’m very fluent in Asad Prince–speak.
“It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Ms. Cross,” Naoki says with a slight bow of his head.
“You as well,” I say, nodding.
“Now I know why you seemed familiar.” Don Amato smiles, a gleam I can’t fully decipher in his dark gaze. “You must favor your mother, but I can see the resemblance to Marcus.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Didn’t see this coming. That would make you the last Cross, wouldn’t it?”
“With all due respect, Don Amato, but no. She is not the last Cross. My sons are Crosses. Marcus wouldn’t have left his empire to my oldest son if he didn’t consider them family, his sons,” Michelle interjects, her tone heated, affronted.
I’ve heard this shit over the last decade of my life. But for her to continue with this now? After everything that has been stated? I slowly reach for the fork next to Asad’s plate, but a hard, implacable hand covers mine, squeezes it. Prevents me from picking up that utensil and driving it into her lying-ass tongue.
Glancing down, Asad narrows his gaze on me. Shakes his head. Then releases my hand. Exhaling, I pull free of his grip and meet the dark, knowing stare of Noaki, who obviously caught the exchange.
In front of me, and everyone else at the table, Don Amato’s congenial demeanor shifts, and a hard cruelty creeps across his expression, turning his face into a harsh, frigid landscape.
“As your son said earlier, Mrs. Cross, I, too, insist on respect. And being the widow of the former boss and mother of the current one doesn’t make you exempt. I understand very well how familial dynamics work,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm and a simmering disdain. “But marriage does not trump biology or DNA. Marcus would’ve left his position to Asad because, like most of our organizations, a woman cannot rule. Yet that doesn’t negate the scientific fact that Asad’s fiancée is the only relation left with Crossbloodrunning in her veins. No matter how much you may wish to the contrary.”
Gotdamn.
I slide a glance at Asad to catch his reaction to the Italian mob boss reading his mother down. But he doesn’t have one. His expression doesn’t change from the aloof, impassive one that hides his every thought and emotion.
“I can’t believe Marcus kept this a secret from all of us though,” Demarcus murmurs, his hazel gaze fixed on me, a frown wrinkling his forehead. Unlike his brother, he doesn’t appear upset, just confused and maybe a little… hurt.
Though most of the Cross soldiers weren’t aware of my identity, I’m fully aware of who they are, and Demarcus was one of my father’s longtime and most loyal soldiers. I get why he’d be disillusioned and offended by Marcus’s lie of omission. Shit, he was out here like a deadbeat baby daddy, denying an offspring that most people didn’t know existed.
“He’s not here to explain himself, and this isn’t about him,” Asad reiterates, essentially deading the subject. Demarcus nods, but his expression remains troubled. Maybe he’s realizing how much of a bitch his friend and boss was. “Since Marcus had you, Naoki, Dimitri, and Julian sign as witnesses to the addendum to his will regarding my requirement of a bride within sixty days of assuming leadership of Cross, I thought it only fair you be here for this announcement and invite you to the wedding that will take place in a month’s time.”
“I can’t believe this shit!” Aryn shoots up from her chair and storms from the dining room.
I feel you, baby girl.
“Asad, how can you humiliate Aryn like that?” Michelle snaps. “She’s been around much longer than her. She’s more loyal and worthy to bear your name and stand by your side. She doesn’t deserve this treatment from you.”
I sigh, loud and wholly aggravated. My stepmother’s glare shifts to me, and I smile, daring her to take her best shot. The ho better not miss. When she leans toward me, I start to rise from my chair, but once again Asad stops me. His fingers clamp down on my shoulder.
“You invited her here, Michelle, I didn’t,” he coldly says to his mother. “So any humiliation she’s experiencing is on you, not me.”
Relief and a fierce satisfaction sings through me hearing that Asad didn’t invite his girlfriend to the dinner party. On the heels of it though is self-directed disgust. I shouldn’t care; it shouldn’t faze me. But fuck if it doesn’t.
“I have one more”—Asad pauses, and a slow smile slidesacross his face. It’s not pretty, not warm. It’s fucking terrifying—“surprise for the evening. What’s a party without entertainment?”