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“The docks were burning,” I say. “I made the decision.”
“You don’t make decisions involving Harrington men.”
But they came when I called. Three cars of armed men followed my order without asking whether my father approved. I’m guessing that's what has pissed him off.
“I did last night.”
My father lets his annoyance simmer as he draws on his cigar, eyeing me through the smoke.
Years ago, that silence would’ve had me searching for something least likely to provoke him. Now I hold his stare and let him wait.
“You’re becoming careless,” he says.
“No. I’m tired of asking permission when the right decision is obvious.”
He taps ash into the tray. “I make the decisions, son. I would’ve let the Crowes damage the Tallons before deciding whether intervention benefited us.”
“You would’ve made the wrong decision.”
His eyes narrow. “Brennan tells me you’ve been spending more time in Cork.”
“I have business there.”
“You have business everywhere lately.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Not on anything I sanctioned.” He drinks again, then swirls the whiskey in the tumbler. “Cancelling your wedding is also a decision you’re making without my permission.”
Eilish was right. Without Sera, I might have gone ahead with the wedding because it would’ve served me well in the long run. But once she let me close, marrying her best friend became a line I couldn’t cross.
I’ve spent my life playing the part my father wrote for me. I’m not following his script all the way to the altar when Sera is the one it would hurt.
“The engagement isn’t right for me.”
“It’s right for this family.” The glass meets the desk with a controlled thud. “Art Kinnane called me this morning. He wants to know how I intend to repair your disrespect.”
“Art will find another alliance. Men like him always do.”
His brows nip together, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening as cordial tolerance slips away. “You’re speaking like a boy.”
“Why?” My brows drift up. “Because I don’t want the bride you chose for me?”
“You would inherit both families’ interests.”
“I don’t need them.”
My father leans forward, pressing his elbows into the desk. “What did you say?”
“I don’t need the Kinnanes, and I don’t need your inheritance while it comes with so many conditions.”
A low laugh leaves him. “You own a rundown warehouse and a little apartment in Cork.”
“The apartment is my home.”
“How impressive.”
Years ago, that contempt would’ve followed me back to Cork and poisoned every room and thought of success. Now I picture the view from the penthouse. My father inherited this mansion, but he never made it a home for his family.
