I won’t stand for it any longer. I built my empire with my own sweat, guts, and determination, and I defend what’s mine. My uncle has forgotten that I am just as ruthless as he is. I learned from his example, after all. His reminder will be fierce and swift.
Michael slows to a stop in the circular drive of the ten-thousand-square-foot Georgian-style mansion.
“I won’t be long,” I say, reaching for the door handle and pushing it open.
“Yes, sir.”
I make my way to the front door, and it swings open wide before I reach it.
“Elisabetta, it’s good to see you again.”
The housekeeper, who has served my aunt and uncle in near silence for as long as I can remember, nods. “This way, Mr. Creighton.”
She leads me to my uncle’s study and shuts the door behind me with a quiet click.
Damon is seated in an oversized antique leather chair that looks like it held a Russian tsar. Knowing Damon, it probably did. The Louis XIV desk is the size of a pool table, and the top is spotless, but for a sleek laptop on a leather blotter and a single Mont Blanc pen.
“Figured you’d show up. It’s always good to be proven right.” His eyes are narrowed on me, and his tone clearly says he’s not pleased with my presence.
“Damon.”
“Creighton.”
“I don’t expect you to offer me a seat. I always enjoy being proven right as well.”
His mouth twists into a mockery of a smile. “I don’t know what you think coming here is going to accomplish, but you might as well say what you’ve got to say and get out. Know in advance that you’re wasting my time.”
I imagine that my own smile is just as sardonic as his. I step closer and lower myself into one of his chairs for the sole purpose of knowing that it pisses him off. I enjoy towering over him, but I enjoy pissing him off more. His scowl gratifies every part of me.
“I came to end this, because quite frankly, Damon, you’re wasting my time, and I’m fucking sick of it. I’ve got better things to do than dicking around with all this petty activist shareholder bullshit, and so do you. We both know it. You’ve hated me since I was a kid; I don’t particularly care why. But we’re both adults, and we’re both businessmen. So how about we talk in terms that we both understand and respect—money. I want your shares. What’s it going to take to get you out of my company and out of my fucking life?”
Damon’s eyes, dark like my own, harden even more, but there’s something else there that I can’t identify. I’m reminded of Cannon’s comment because in this moment, my uncle looks more than his normal shrewd and cutting self.
“You want my shares? You can have them.” He sits forward, pressing his palms on the desk, and stands halfway out of his chair. “All you have to do is change your fucking last name and take it off your goddamn company.”
What the fuck?
His request rings in my head, and my brain spins to find a motive or logic behind his words. He’s fucking crazy.
“What the hell are you talking about, old man?” My words come out low and harsh.
Damon pushes away from the desk and stands tall. He’s six foot one, which means I still top him by two inches. Feeling the need to establish dominance once again, I rise as well.
His face has morphed into the most twisted expression of perverted pleasure I’ve ever beheld as he tilts his head and studies me.
“You don’t deserve that name. You never fucking did. Your whore of a mother got it for you by seducing my little brother. She ruined his fucking life. Killed him.”
I suck in a breath but my lungs are burning, as if all the oxygen in this room couldn’t satisfy them. What is he saying?
“Explain yourself before I fucking beat it out of you.”
The evil light of perverse pleasure burns in his eyes. “You’ve never wondered why Greer actually looks Greek and you don’t? Oh, you’ve got Mediterranean heritage, but it didn’t come from this family.”
Everything inside me goes cold. I become intrinsically aware of every unconscious function of my body. Every tha-thunk of my heart. The whoosh of blood through my ears. Each blink of my eyes. Every shallow, indrawn breath and shaky exhalation. The sensation of my stomach on the floor at my feet.
“What the fuck are you saying?” I roar.
Visions of my father—my swarthy, very Greek father—filter through my brain. My mother was a brunette as well. I always assumed I took after her more than him, but my looks never raised suspicion.
“Don’t you get it, Crey? The only reason you weren’t born a fucking bastard is because your mother seduced my brother into marrying her before you were born. She got knocked up by a married man, and her family threw her out. My brother was a sucker. A good kid. A fucking junior in college. He was going to do great things—join me in the business. But he met her, and he wouldn’t listen. They got married six weeks later without telling anyone. When we found out and tried to talk him into annulling it, he dug in his heels. Joined that damn church and moved out of the city. Five years later, they ended up in Papua fucking New Guinea, and we all know how that ended. She as good as killed him herself. He never would’ve been there if not for her.”
His words twist in a riot in my head, and I’m trying to make sense of them, but it sounds like complete fiction. It can’t be true.
“You’re telling me that David Karas was not my biological father.”
Damon is stone-faced. “No. He wasn’t.”
My father was not my father. The realization pounds into my brain over and over. I turn and pace toward the door. Several beats later, I gather myself and face him again.