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If the situation wasn’t dire, I’d have walked.
If this wasn’t about family, I wouldn’t even be here.
But Dad’s in trouble.
If he’s in trouble, then so’s Uncle Grant. And that means danger for all of us. For Amelia. I can take care of me, but Amelia’s only fifteen, so here I am, waiting to see a man I know nothing about except he’s supposed to be a powerful man. Someone who can help.
A shiver runs down my spine, white-hot, like a gaze sears into me, one with purpose, one with dangerous intent.
I take a breath. Of course I’m being watched. It’s a bar.
The bartender returns and puts a bottle of beer in front of me, a slight sneer on his face. “Dude in the fuckin’ corner wanted me to give you this.”
I eye the beer, but as much as I want to look over my shoulder, I don’t. I have enough experience to know looking at whoever bought it is as much of an invite to join as taking the drink.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says. “You don’t send beer to a girl with class.”
“Who said I have class?”
“You’re class, and I’m not hitting on you. Just stating a fact.” He shrugs.
I smile despite myself. “The beer’s yours.”
“You’re right, I don’t have class.” The bartender grins, taps my glass with the bottle, then turns, raises it, and gives the finger to the buyer. “Let me know if you need an ear. I know there’s a story.” He wanders off again.
I pick up my wineglass and take a sip as I mumble to myself, “Class, that’s me.”
For most of my life I thought I came from a respectable family, a very moneyed one, and though they didn’t need to step in and save a small shipping company when I was in my teens, my dad and uncle did just that, which also meant securing jobs on a cross-dock warehouse system in Queens.
It wasn’t until I overheard a few conversations here and there between Dad and Uncle Grant that I realized they might not be as respectable as I thought. I never asked questions because… well, I really don’t want to know the answers. Why would I? It’s not my business. I have my own inheritance from my mother, and I’m not about to go into shipping or cargo in any way.
I bake. And I want to turn my hobby into a business of my own. When and if I ever grow that nerve.
But not being completely on the up-and-up means I need to take any and all threats seriously.
Not that there were any.
Until now.
Or, should I say, that I’ve known of. Not outside the usual things that happen to the rich and powerful. I guess there are always opportunists trying to make a buck, but they’ve sheltered me from it.
But whatever this is feels… wrong.
And… Shit. I’m angry. Scared. Because there have been too many worried, low-voiced arguments, too many moments of cut-short conversations. Then there was the sudden, added security and Dad trying to get me to come back home.
That’s when I found the written threats. In a drawer in the home office that’s usually locked. I do part-time work for the shipping company, sending out invoices, answering emails, and basic scheduling. It’s low-level stuff, general appointments and social engagements as well as some meetings with potential clients, so I don’t need to get into the safe or anything locked. I don’t have a key, but one day there was an invoice marked highly sensitive on the desk, and when I noticed the drawer wasn’t locked, I opened it to file the invoice and found them.
Threats about me.
About Amelia.
About Dad.
And I started piecing things together.
The night when Dad was almost run off the road. Amelia was with him, too.
The stranger who tried to grab Amelia. She said when her friend shouted, the man apologized and said he’d mistaken her for his kid.
