Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Then came the death of Mason Godwin on our fucking turf. We own that stadium, and what happens there falls on us. His murder does make us look shady as fuck.
There are clear boundaries between the Frost family businesses and the Godwins. Seattle is the prime area for hotels, but so much of it belongs to the Godwins. But somehow the two families have been able to live in peace.
But now…
All that burned to a crisp, along with Mason Godwin.
Now my father thinks we all need bodyguards. Hello, Jasper.
Jasper calls my name again and flashes my phone. I grimace. I gave it to him earlier because I didn’t want any more interruptions on the first day of work in what feels like forever. If another setback springs up, I will bulldoze the damn cement parking garage myself.
“Your father, sir,” Jasper says with a bow of his head.
This can’t be good. Ever since news of Mason’s death, he’s been on edge. Silvano is not an easy man to shake. He has my grandfather’s stubbornness and my grandmother’s temper, making him a walking time bomb. Usually, it’s directed at my brother Sam, but I’ve been on the tail end of his fists a few too many times. For him to be this affected signals bad news.
I walk away from the machinery to hear better.
“This is Braken.”
“Are you in Heathens Hollow or Seattle?”
“Seattle working on the—”
“Good. Come to Mastro’s by noon,” he orders. “Don’t be late.”
The command is simple yet fills me with dread. A last-minute demand like this means something is wrong.
I check the time on my watch. I have forty-five minutes to get to downtown Seattle, so I’ll be cutting it close with afternoon traffic. I unbuckle my hard hat and pass it to Jasper, ordering him to grab the car and get going ASAP. Getting an earful from my father is not how I want to start this week.
Mastro’s is completely empty. The steakhouse doesn’t open for lunch, but money talks, and my father has plenty of it. An attractive waitress who offers me a flirtatious smile as I pass by leads me upstairs. My father sits at his usual table by the window overlooking the classic brick buildings that make up the charming neighborhood. When he’s here for dinner, he reserves the other ten seats to have a little privacy during a good meal. A lunch booking is for private Frost business.
Today’s business is none other than Hector Godwin.
I try to keep my shock from appearing on my face. I can’t remember the last time the two of them met. There hasn’t been any reason. We stick to our territory; the Godwins stick to theirs. That was how it was supposed to be until the heir of the Godwins became nothing more than dust in the wind.
“Braken, there you are.” My father gestures to the open seat next to him.
I don’t see any signs of distress or annoyance on his face, but he’s always been hard to read. Especially during negotiations, which I have a funny feeling is happening now.
But what’s that have to do with me?
Before I can slip into my chair, Hector stands and offers his hand. “Braken.”
“Hector,” I answer politely and shake it. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Trust me when I say I felt the same until last week.” Hector’s smile is shrewd as he gestures to the empty chair. “Sit.”
I sit next to my father, and a waiter is immediately next to me with a bottle of Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon Special Selection. There is no menu, wine list, or pricing. All my father does is hand over his black card, and everything’s taken care of.
Which means business can proceed.
“I want to thank you for coming to Mason’s funeral.” Hector sets down his wine glass and swirls it a few times. “Especially under the circumstances.”
Hector’s dark brown eyes flick between the two of us. He’s reading all he can in the way we move, speak, and act. Waiting for us to crack. Maybe hoping for us to slip up. Unfortunately for him, that won’t happen because we’re as clueless and pissed off as he is.
“The circumstances?” My father’s lips quirk down into his typical pondering frown.
Hector leans back in his chair and gestures toward us with both hands. “The way I see it, there are two reasons you showed up. Either you’re with us in standing against whoever ordered the hit, or you’re against us and were there to gloat. Seeing as how my boy died on your soil…”
He clicks his tongue. The answer is obvious anyway. He doesn’t trust that we didn’t have a hand in Mason’s death. The waiter brings out the appetizers of sautéed shrimp and a dozen half-shell oysters, but none of us makes a move to grab any. Tensions are so tight that one sudden movement will snap the wire and send it all tumbling down. Even the smallest misunderstanding can start an all-out war. All over some fucking over-priced oysters.