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My silence is the only confirmation Clara seems to need. “Besides,” she says, a little more softly, “I left with my mom. And my mom never left. Maybe she felt like she couldn’t leave, because a life on the run isn’t easy, especially with a kid. Or maybe she didn’t want to leave, because she loved her brother and agreed with his choices, even if they hurt her. I don’t know. I’ll never know now.”
She shrugs, and the helplessness of it feels so familiar, I almost have to step back from it.
One of the worst things about growing up is the moment you learn that your parents are mortal, flawed people, and that you will never truly know everything about them. I had that epiphany the day after the schism, when my father made the decision not to pursue Morgan.
He’d looked so, so tired. He looked tired for the rest of his life, after that.
“What about you?” Clara suddenly asks, speaking a little louder than necessary as if to clear the air of the sudden grimness. “Did you always want to be a mafia boss?”
I almost laugh, whether she meant for the question to be a joke or not. After all, comparing a whimsical life as an artist with the grueling role of a mafia boss sounds absurd. Surely she could choose whether or not she wants to turn her passion into a career, no matter how compulsively she creates? Meanwhile, I was raised to be my father’s heir since I could walk. What use am I as anything else?
But Clara watches me with sincere anticipation. She wants to know what made me choose this life. Maybe that makes sense to her, someone who has so vehemently chosen to leave it. How different our worlds are, how disparate our personal cages.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” I say frankly. “The empire needs ruling, and my family needs to be provided for.”
For some inexplicable reason, Clara looks sad at this response. “So you never… wanted to take over the Warwick family?”
She doesn’t understand, or maybe I don’t understand her. I try to frame it another way. “When your mother died, you had the option to give up on art and find a different way to express yourself. If I had decided to ‘quit’ after my father died, Morgan Speare would have rolled through the remains of my home with guns blazing, and I and everyone I knew would’ve died.”
Clara looks as though I’ve slapped her, but I continue on. “Being the head of the Warwick family isn’t an impulse, like art is for you. It’s my job. And it suits me. I excel at it. I have no interest in anything else.”
An awkward silence falls between us. I spoke harshly, perhaps, but I also spoke truths that she needs to understand about me. I’m not like her. I’m not romantic or creative or dreamy. I’m a born and bred businessman, soldier, and king all rolled into one. This is what I was trained to be, and so, it is what I am.
Clara bites her lip, apparently mulling over what I’ve said. I don’t understand why, but I wait in silence to see whether she will accept or reject what I’ve told her so bluntly about myself. Finally, she nods. The tension in my chest loosens a little.
I’ve been judged and deemed sufficient.
“So,” Clara starts, forming her mouth slowly around the word, “what do you like to do?”
I blink at her. “I like getting things done. I like when negotiations go well.” I think for another moment. “I like coffee.”
Clara smiles at that, bemused. “Okay, but- do you have any hobbies?”
“I don’t have time for hobbies, Clara.”
She actually snorts at that. “Imagine you had time!” she insists. “If you had the time for a hobby, what would it be?”
What is the point of this thought experiment? I want to tell her it’s a pointless question, but she didn’t shy away from my truth, so I’ll humor her.
I consider my answer for a long moment. What would satisfy my circumspect mindset? What would I be satisfied spending hours on? It would have to be something I could prove my skill at, something with a clear end goal so that I could be sure I’d done the activity correctly.
“I would play chess,” I decide. “Competitively.”
Clara bursts out laughing. It’s sudden and bright, startling some birds in the trees around us and sending them into the sky. Clara quickly stifles her laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth, but she’s not quick enough to stop something from happening inside my chest. When she lowers her hand, Clara is still smiling, and it’s so much better than seeing her sad.
“Well then, you should probably finish that set you’ve been collecting,” she says.
I grin, and for the first time since Clara came back into my life, it isn’t calculated.
CHAPTER 20
Thomas
Derrick Lindman’s banquet is being held in the reception hall on the third floor of LUX, a Michelin-starred restaurant financed by my father back in the day. It’s a bit outside of the new sheriff’s price range, but I can only assume he’s making good use of the money he’s gotten from me over the years. I doubt Derrick knows I own the building, but it gives me a sense of satisfaction. I might be negotiating at his party, but he’s negotiating under my roof- a place he wouldn’t have even seen the inside of without my help.
Clara and I pull up to the restaurant at half past eight, fashionably late. I want to make the most of our impression when we walk in, especially since most of the women here will be in conservative suit dresses, and Clara is wearing an evening gown fit for the red carpet.
This party is not about Derrick Lindman, our newly elected sheriff. It’s about the wealth and prosperity of the Warwick family, and what allying with us can offer those with the right amount of ambition.
