I AM A MAN IN LOVE. And I don’t give a damn who knows it.
I stroll into the Donato headquarters first thing Monday morning, whistling like a damn fool, which was my first mistake. The second one was me smiling at everyone I walked past as I strode through the office, which caused pretty much every single one of them to report this tiny fact to my father. Most of the time, when I come into work, I’m a grouchy ass motherfucker who won’t even speak until I’ve had at least one cup of coffee in me. Maybe two. And none of that sweet Starbucks dessert crap either.
I take my coffee black. No cream, no sugar.
I’m sitting at my desk with my feet propped on the edge, contemplating if I should send Sylvie a text or not to wake her up when my office door bangs open, my father marching his way inside.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I drop my feet to the ground and sit up straight in my chair, tossing my phone on my desk. She doesn’t even have a new phone yet. It’s coming later today, so there’s no point in trying to text her. She wouldn’t get it. “Well, good morning to you too.”
Victor Donato stops to stand behind a chair, reaching out to grip it so tightly, his knuckles turn white. “Do you have anything to tell me?”
“Not anything in particular.” I brace myself for bad news. Maybe we lost a shipment over the weekend. Or someone slipped in and bought out that building downtown we’ve been trying to acquire for the last six months. It could be a myriad of things to set my father off.
“People have been reporting in. About you.” He loosens his grip on the chair. “They say you’re too damn cheerful for your own good.”
“So?” I shrug a shoulder, trying to play it off. Keep it cool.
My father is always looking for a reaction and I’ve learned over the years not to give him one. It’s a talent I’ve honed since I was a teen.
“You’re like me. You’re never cheerful. What’s gotten into you?” His gaze never strays from mine and I swear I want to squirm in my chair like I’m eight and just got caught busting out a window with a baseball. I hate it when he looks at me like that. As if he could read my every thought. I see the realization dawn in his eyes before he declares, “You’ve met a woman.”
“I’ve known her for years,” I say calmly.
Chased her for years.
Loved her for years.
Don’t admit those facts out loud.
“Sylvie Lancaster?”
I nod, keeping my expression impassive. I know what he’s going to say in three, two, one…
“A woman is a weakness. Why else do you think I left your mother? She was so needy. Always wanting me around. Making demands I could never meet. My enemies knew of her existence and threatened her pretty little head on a constant basis. She had no clue.” He waves a hand, as if he could make her disappear that easily. Which he, sort of, did. “Trust me that this one will be the same for you.”
“She’s already living with me.” I hadn’t planned on telling him that little fact just yet, but it’s like I couldn’t stop the words from leaving my mouth.
“Really.”
I nod again, remaining silent.
“For how long?” His brows shoot up.
“Weeks.”
“Jesus, son.” He falls heavily into the chair he was just gripping, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “What if she’s not the one for you?”
“She’s always been the one for me,” I correct, needing him to know how serious I am about her. “I’m going to marry her.”
“A Lancaster?” He drops his hand. “I suppose you could do worse.”
“This isn’t a business merger,” I start, but he holds up his hand, silencing me.
“All marriages are business mergers. You don’t think I’m aware of that wedding between the Constantine kid and that other Lancaster girl? Talk about a power move.” He sounds impressed. “You could do the same thing. A Donato and a Lancaster coming together. You could build a new dynasty between the two of you.”
“I’m in love with her.”
“Bah.” Another dismissive wave. “Love is a weakness.”
“Not to me.” I clear my throat. “Not to us.”
He leans his big body back in the chair, slouching a bit. Looking more like my father and less like the powerful businessman he is when he’s in the office. “You can find good quality pussy anywhere, Spence. You don’t have to marry it.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I snap.
He grins, the fucker. “Ah, so it is serious. No one can talk about the precious pussy, just you.”
“You really shouldn’t say such things,” I bite out between clenched teeth. “She’s going to be your daughter-in-law.”
“We’ll see. Once you put a ring on it, then we’ll talk about weddings and all the bullshit that comes with them.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the chair arms. “You take her to meet your mom yet?”
I slowly shake my head. I didn’t even want to tell him about Sylvie. I knew he’d react like this. He most likely wants me to dump her, while my mother will ask why I haven’t married her already.
“When you do that, then I’ll know you’re serious.” He rises to his feet with a grunt, pointing at me. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but a woman is a liability, son. Your enemies will figure out your weak spot and they’ll come in for the kill.”
I sit up straighter, anger making my blood run cold. “No one will touch a hair on her head.”
“You’ll need bodyguards.”
I raise my brows. “I don’t remember any bodyguards around when I was growing up.”
“Because you didn’t notice them. Didn’t see them for a reason. I hired trained assassins to guard my family. I never fucked around. If you want to keep her safe, don’t fuck around.”
And with that last blistering statement, my father strides out of my office, leaving behind the scent of his overpowering cologne in his wake.
A sigh leaves me and I prop my feet on the edge of the desk once more, my phone clutched in my hand. I bring up the phone number and make the call, grateful when he answers on the second ring.
“It’s too early for you to be calling,” Whit growls into my ear.
“You have children now. Aren’t you up at the crack of dawn every morning?”
“My wife is a genius. She somehow trained Augie to sleep in, which we should enjoy because that baby of ours is coming soon.” I hear the murmur of a voice in the background, and I assume it’s Summer. “Call me later.”
“Meet me for lunch later this afternoon and then I won’t have to call,” I counter.
“Done. Text me where and when.” He ends the call before I can respond.
The grouchy asshole.
I enter the restaurant a little past one, spotting Whit sitting at a table waiting for me. He glares when our gazes meet, and I can’t help it.
I’m grinning the entire time I walk toward him, which only makes his scowl deepen. By the time I’m settled in the chair across from him, he’s in full-on disgusted mode.
“God, you’re cheerful. I can only assume you’re getting laid on the regular.”
“I’m in love,” I declare, unafraid to say it. For once in my life. “With your sister.”
Whit’s hand immediately shoots up in the air, waving at a nearby waiter. “Going to need a stiff drink for this conversation.”
We order drinks, and once the server is gone, Whit leans back in his chair, studying me carefully with those always assessing eyes.
“I don’t like what happened at your apartment Saturday.”
“I don’t either,” I agree.
“My mother oversteps her boundaries. She doesn’t understand why no one wants to be around her. Specifically, Sylvie, who was her little puppet her entire life.” Whit leans forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “I don’t understand it either. What happened between the two of them? Do you know?”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “It’s not my place to tell. You should talk to Sylvie.”
“I’ve tried. She dodges the question every chance she gets.”
“She might not anymore. If you tell her you spoke to me, she could open up a bit.”
“Did she try to hurt her? My mother,” he clarifies when I frown. “When Sylvie was sick all the time, was that because of—our mother’s doing?”
I don’t want to reveal what isn’t my story, but I offer him a curt nod in response.
A ragged sigh leaves Whit, and he stares off into the distance, his jaw working. “I hate that.”
“I do too.”
“Summer gave me bits and pieces of her conversations with Sylvie when we were all in high school, and we came to our own conclusions, though it was hard for me to fathom. Why would our mother try to hurt her? Why would she purposely keep my sister sick? Then Summer started sending me links to articles about Munchausen by proxy, and after reading them, I realized that sounded a lot like my mother’s relationship with Sylvie,” Whit explains, his voice low.
“It’s child abuse.” I did my own research, and what I read disgusted me. “Your mother is an abuser.”
“I never noticed. Not when I was younger. Not really.” He stares off into the distance. “I should’ve known. I should’ve done something.”
“We were kids. What could you have done?”
“I don’t know. I should’ve talked to my father. I should’ve helped my sister.” He shakes his head. “I feel guilty.”
“Don’t. She doesn’t blame you for anything. This is your mother’s fault, and no one else’s.”
“It’s why we don’t let her spend any time alone with August.” Whit’s expression slightly pales. “I could never forgive myself if something happened to him while in her care.”
“I think that’s best,” I agree.
The server appears with our drinks and takes our lunch order. Once he’s gone and we’ve downed a few sips, I decide to be completely truthful with my best friend.
“I want to marry Sylvie.”
Whit barely hides the smile curling his lips. “I assumed that would be the case.”
“I want to ask her to marry me soon, but I don’t know if I’m rushing things.” I feel like an idiot for even admitting that to him.
“You two have been dancing around this for years. I don’t think you’re rushing anything.” His words dismiss my worry in an instant.
Mostly.
“She’s still a widow in the public eye,” I remind him. “We have to consider that.”
“Please. That marriage barely happened. And she was forced to do it.”
“By your mother.”
Another sigh leaves my friend and he slowly shakes his head. “My mother needs help. Something is wrong with her, and she doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”
“She’s obsessed with Sylvie.” I saw the text messages from her mom on the old phone—we were able to look up the messages on her iCloud. They weren’t normal. Not even close. “In an unhealthy manner.”
“That’s a polite way of phrasing that our mother has lost her damn mind.” Whit grabs his glass and drains it. “I’ll speak to her.”
“Really?” I arch a brow.
He nods. “I don’t know any other way to broach the subject besides being upfront with it. The woman needs to face facts—what she’s done to Sylvie throughout the years isn’t right. My mother has always basked in attention, and my father rarely gave it to her. As if he knew she thrived on it, and he didn’t want to see her thrive.”
Their marriage was a wreck, but I don’t bother saying it. Whit already knows.
“I’m wondering if she used Sylvie’s so-called illness as a way to gain attention. From my father, the family, doctors. I don’t know. Clearly, she needs help. A therapist. A licensed psychiatrist, whatever. Perhaps she needs to be put on medication.”
“All of that should be considered,” I say.
“I agree.” He studies me for a moment. “And what about Sylvie? Is she all fucked up over this still? Does she need to see a therapist? Be put on medication?”
“Probably,” I say. “Though I don’t want to answer for her.”
“Something to talk over with her. I know she’s been in therapy before. And she’s also taken gobs of pills throughout the years. A variety of medications that never seemed to help.”
“I don’t think it’s easy, being Sylvie Lancaster,” I point out. “She struggles with that most of all.”
The wistful expression on Whit’s face is reassuring. It means he cares about his sister. “I know. It’s not easy being a Lancaster in general.”
“The rich have problems too,” I say, lifting my glass in his direction.
He lifts his empty glass, clinking it against mine. “Indeed.”
