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“The eastern loading shed took most of the damage,” I say. “Two access points are blocked, the yard has lost power, and three of our shipments have been delayed.”
“For how long?”
“Until the Tallons clear the blockage.”
His eyes lift to mine. “You’re relying on them to reopen a route carrying Harrington freight?”
“It’s their dock.”
“It’s our business passing through it.”
“If you want it moving again, they need time to count their dead and deal with the authorities.”
His mouth tightens at the word dead, not because he cares about lost lives, but because bodies bring police, questions, and delays.
I press my palms against my thighs before they curl into fists. Sera could’ve died at those fucking docks and my father is irritated because the dead have slowed his freight.
As my father takes a slow drink, I wonder how I ever mistook his indifference for strength. I watch him swallow and mentally note that I wouldn’t move if he started choking.
He eyes me over the rim of his glass. “Was anything stolen?”
“No.”
“Were our containers breached?”
“The Crowes weren’t there to steal. They were there to destabilize the port.”
He takes another mouthful of whiskey while he considers that. “Or to persuade the Tallons that our trading agreement is no longer worth the trouble. Saint has tried to cut us out of those docks for years.”
“The contract we have is watertight. I checked it myself. Grandfather knew what he was doing. If the Harringtons couldn’t own the docks, we would always have access to them.”
My father sits back, clips the end off his cigar, and turns it between his fingers.
“Why were Harrington men there?”
“The port was under attack.”
“I heard the report.”
“Then you know why.”
“No.” He lights the cigar and draws until smoke leaves his mouth. “I know three cars arrived at the docks without my authority. I know Harrington weapons were fired during an attack that wasn’t ours. What I don’t know is why my son gave the order.”
Because Sera was there, and if she and my father were trapped inside a burning building, I’d drag her out first without thinking twice.
“We need the port operating.”
His stare hardens. “Don’t dress disobedience as business acumen."
“I’m not dressing it as anything.”
“Then explain why you moved men without consulting me.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“There’s always time to remember who gives the orders.”
Yes, sir rises automatically, carved into me by years of standing in this room giving this man my loyalty. I press my tongue against the back of my teeth, so the words die before they escape.
