Page 33 of Legacy of Deception

My lips twitched, and I so badly wanted to say a million improper things, flinging them at him like he was nothing more than a dartboard. Instead, I read his body language and opted to let him believe he was in control, offering him a faint smirk. “Too bad he already knows.” Amusement laced my words like drugs in someone’s food. I would have felt bad about it, but I didn’t.

“You told him?”

“His mind-reading skills have been a little rusty lately.”

“You’re definitely your father’s daughter.”

Marco got up, leaning his hands on the table as he looked like he was about to lunge for Santo. “I think that’s enough,” he yelled, his eyes fixed on Santo.

This was merely inevitable. Santo had no idea the woman he was sparring with. He had no idea the woman he had selected to become his newest daughter-in-law.

I had a spine made of steel.

I was a Briggs.

I’d been through a lot of bullshit.

And I wasn’t going to take his.

Not now. Not ever.

The old man had better watch himself.

He scowled, fury rising in him as he brought a fist down on the table, making all the plates and glasses shake. “You are just as shortsighted and foolish as Raf.”

His was an interesting perspective. “This coming from a man who is purchasing failing equestrian centers.” I didn’t move an inch, remaining seated while Marco continued to stand. Perhaps he was too heated to sit back down, or he was simply waiting for the next time he would have to step in. Either way, I gave Santo no sign I was backing down. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

A dangerous chuckle tore through the space, daring me to flinch. “I know more than you, which is why I know no one outside of this family and Robert can find out he’s the father.”

Marco cracked his neck, placing his hands on either side of him as he tried to regain control. “Better hope I remember to cancel the mass email I had going out later tonight.” His fingers twitched.

If this was how he treated family, I could have only imagined how he treated guests. Marco got screwed out of a real father. One who knew the meaning of the word proud. Unless it somehow benefited Santo, I didn’t think he saw it as warranting any such emotion.

Placing my hand over his where no one could see, I gave Santo the answer he had been wanting from the beginning. “No one is going to find out.”

Santo smirked, looking off to the side, like something was there that captured his attention. “He doesn’t need a social climber, and neither do I.” He raised his voice and leaned forward, meeting my eyes again. “You will not jump into other beds to further yourself and your no-good father while you’re with my son.”

How dare he speak like that about my father. I glided my tongue over my teeth, deliberating over my next comment. It was difficult to believe anyone came to this hellscape of their own accord. If I never had to experience another Sunday night dinner in my life, it still wouldn’t be enough time. “If you’re so unhappy, cancel the deal with my father.” And again, I think a little unhappiness would have served him, considering all of the misery he clearly caused everyone around him.

“You wet-behind-the-ears little girl, you are blind and foolish, so stay in your lane and don’t concern yourself with the games big boys play.” He raised his glass and took a sip of the wine that shook in the glass only moments before, then grimaced.

My blood was boiling.

The tips of my ears reddened.

“That’s it. We’re out of here,” Marco said, turning my hand so that it was in his as he pulled me up from my seat and practically dragged me out of the dining room before I could react, something I so desperately wanted to do.

As I passed by Santo’s seat, all I could think about was how fortunate he was no one had put a bullet through that useless organ in his chest. It had no use being there. It obviously wasn’t doing him any good.

“You’re out of line,” Marco ground out as he kept a firm grip on my hand, probably to ensure I didn’t go ballistic on his father.

Part of me wasn’t sure if it was for my benefit or Santo’s. Maybe both, though I couldn’t see how. Neither actually sounded more like it. He probably just didn’t want the headache the press would give him when they got wind that his future wife attempted to strangle his father at the dinner table in his own home.

“He’s a son of a bitch, is what he is,” I hissed loud enough that everyone could hear me.

“You don’t like to hear it because it’s the truth,” Santo returned, having to get the last word in.

Well, he could have it. It was obvious he needed one of the only miserable things he had left in this life—a sad triumph.