Chapter 2: Chapter Two

*Brielle’s POV*

I hear my father summon me from the other side of the door and turn the antique looking doorknob to enter his office. When I was little, the office always seemed like this forbidden, untouchable place. It was where dad held his meetings and business deals, and such things were kept from me when I was much younger.

My father was a very approachable man, especially to me, when it came to personal matters and advice. Many of my memories consist of he and I sitting on the couch talking about business and how to think through different scenarios to predict the best possible outcome. We played chess among other games, and sometimes mom joined us for strategic card games. Having a conversation with my dad was never an issue if it were anywhere else in the house.

Being summoned to his office, on the other hand, spelled danger for anyone – including me. If I did poorly on a test, I would receive my reprimand in his office. If there were business deals or appointments to be had, it happened in his office. Going through those dark oak doors could mean you were walking out a broken business owner or a new man, remade with my father’s money or connections.

Earlier today when I so boldly knocked on his door and presented my proposal file, I presented it in his office. I left broken the first time, but perhaps something was different. Being summoned back to his office to discuss something could very well mean that he reconsidered. I did leave my file behind for him to examine after all.

I turn the knob and push the door open. The smell of old leather-bound books instantly wafts over me. They are collections of first edition books mingled with the most up-to-date legal texts. Dad always ensures he is current in his legal studies to understand where the legal loopholes are and where he can push the boundaries of the law.

The top of the wall and the bookshelves that line the wall are illuminated, giving the room an ominous courtroom feeling to it. The first room is a medium sized conference table with a bar and beverage table in the corner. Not a stitch is out of place on any of the chairs or upholstery around this dark oak table.

My dad’s dark oak desk is in the room beyond, sitting solitarily like my father. Unlike when I first saw him earlier today, his creased face is illuminated by the LED screen of the flat screen television that sits to the left of the desk on a cabinet of files and documents, locked away for safe keeping.

I give him thirty seconds to notice me before I address him.

“Good evening dad,” I say politely, doing my best to keep my composure as I watch his chocolate brown eyes which I inherited from him glance from the television to me and then back to the screen. He reaches over, thick calloused fingers grasping the remote and forcefully pressing the “mute” button before looking back at me.

He pulls a smile onto his face, but it does not last long. I know instantly this is a business discussion and that, much to my dismay, it is not going to go my way in the end.

“Good evening my dear,” he says, his smooth voice reminding me of a late autumn breeze, warm but a hint of wise age in it. “I apologize for calling you in here. I have been thinking things over and I have come to an important decision. I know it is not an opportune time, especially after our discussion earlier.”

“Think nothing of it,” I say with perhaps a little too much confidence. “I’m just thankful you reconsidered.” My dad’s eyebrows knit together in momentary confusion, as if I jumped unexpectedly from one subject to the next and lost him along the way. He connects the dots quickly and, as if waving away a foul stench, waves his hand back and forth as if to dismiss the subject altogether.

“Oh, I haven’t changed my mind about that,” he says bluntly. “No, this is far more important.” My spirits drop and I physically feel my chest clench and tighten. He doesn’t want to talk about it? He hasn’t changed his mind about it?

“I’m sorry, what? So, my business proposal from earlier isn’t important to you?” I demand, accidentally speaking out loud. Those dark brown eyes of my dad narrow, showing obvious displeasure that I not only interrupted him, but also that I am bringing the matter up again. I pinch my lips together until they make a thin land and stand in silence until he sits up in his chair.

“Gabriella, I reviewed the packet you gave me and made my decision,” he says firmly. “If you are seeking praise for the effort you dedicated to it, I will concede and say it is an excellent source of information. This will prove beneficial to the family when the time comes; at which point, one of your cousins will see to the subject matter.”

“Dad, with all due respect, I don’t think you are giving me the credit that I am due. You have trusted me with appointments and bookkeeping for years, but you won’t trust me with an actual account? A real business deal? Is this punishment for something I’ve done wrong? Haven’t I proven myself enough? At least to you?” I ask, my questions coming out of my mouth faster than I could check my tone.

My father stiffens and leans back in his chair, a clear indication that I am in trouble. His fingers fold in front of him as he stares at me. In an instant, I see the look in his eye that is filled with nostalgia. I know right then and there that he still sees me as that seven-year-old girl trying to bite off more than she could chew.

Slowly, he stands, the floor creaking under his frame, and walks around the desk, slowly unfolding his hands and placing them into his front waistcoat pockets. He leans against the desk, and I swear I see the front bow just a little before he folds his arms across his chest and continues speaking in a smooth, calm manner.

“My dear, you know I trust you. I trust you more than my own right arm; however, running a business deal and making yourself public versus the anonymity of scheduling appointments and keeping the books are two entirely different things,” he says. I bite my lower lip and subtly shake my head while I craft my rebuttal. “Your contribution is far more than what you perceive.”

“And I want to contribute more,” I counter, leaning my weight onto one hip and folding my arms, mirroring his body posture. “Everything I do is for the family and for the family business. From classes to connections, I have done everything and then some to help support the family business. So, what is the difference between what I’m doing now and getting out into the world to do what you all do? I’ve taken self-defense classes and I can handle myself. I can handle being in the family business officially.”

“Can you now?” my dad counters as he raises his eyebrows and nods slowly. He is feigning being impressed, and I see right through it. Before I can continue, he leans over and unmutes the television which was running in the background.

The sound comes through the television, and I listen as the news caster, some bleach blonde woman standing outside with police lights flashing, continues speaking.

“What was once believed to be a random string of homicides is now believed to be connected as the killer, or killers, have left similar scenes behind, though police refuse to provide additional details. This grizzly set of murders, which began one month ago, has our officers in blue tight lipped as to whom they believe the perpetrators may be. As of right now, police officers have yet to publicly name any suspects in this recent string of murders, but police chief Thomas Shepherd indicated he had a few persons of interest whom he will be bringing in for questioning at an undisclosed time,” says the woman.

My father turns down the volume, so it continues to run in the background, but does not mute the reporter entirely. He clears his throat, signaling that he wants my attention. So, obediently, I pry my eyes away from the television and look into his eyes.

“This is what being in the family business officially looks like,” he says quietly. My jaw tightens and a knot forms in my stomach. I think I know what he is about to say, but I listen as he continues. “The young man who they found. I just got the call from Roman Gentile himself. It is his nephew on the news – the victim of this attack.”

I feel the acidic bile of stomach acid burn the back of my throat. His nephew? Lucian Gentile? Admittedly, I only had a couple of interactions with him since our families were technically rivals going after the same clients and circles of influence, but I would not have wished this on the Gentile family.

We may be rivals, but we are not murderers.

“It was a gentleman’s call, from one father, uncle, and family head to the next, to see if we were responsible for taking his nephew’s life,” my father says. I knew what a gentleman’s call was, and it was the one chance for one family to come clean if they committed a crime against the other. “What is more interesting is that other families, similar to our own, are all seeing losses like this, though this is the closest relation to the main family the culprit has come.”

“Do police have any information on who may be responsible?” I ask quietly.

“Our connections have no idea,” replies my father with a sign. “Meaning they are keeping this case close to the chest or that they really do not have any additional information about who may be responsible. They have even been reluctant to disclose cause of death and potential weapons.”

“So, you don’t want me to get involved with the family business because you think we may be next? That is what this is about? You don’t want me to get involved in the family business because of some lunatic is out going after rival families?” I ask directly, letting the sickening feeling churning my insides fuel my argument rather than hinder it.

“It seems as though families are a target as are their clients. It only makes sense to protect our own. Yours is not the only movement I have restricted, Gabriella. All of our appointments have been reduced recently, and our clients and connections have been anxious, and we are doing all in our power to mitigate the affects of these recent tragedies,” says my father. “Which brings me to my reason for bringing you here to my office.”

My dad steps back around the desk to the intercom system and scans his thumbprint before pressing a few buttons. I hear the chime go off in the main lobby where Julius, another one of my cousins, stands guard. My father leans forward and touches the intercom button.

“Send him in,” he says. There is a pause before the office door opens and a man in his early to mid-twenties steps through the door.

The scene unfolds in front of me in slow motion. My father strides around his desk toward the young man, shakes his hand, and turns to face me. I see the face of this broad chested man with sandy brown hair shaved into an undercut style who I am, unfortunately, all too familiar with.

“Brielle, let me introduce you to your new best friend.”

My mind and my father say his name in unison.

Jonathan Taggart – my secret ex-boyfriend.