The unmistakable sound of someone cocking a shotgun is the last thing I want to hear when I open the door to Commodore’s house.
“You piece of shit! That was my trout. I’ve been waiting to catch him for a goddamned year.” Magnus Gable’s voice is just as distinctive as the gun.
“Not my fault you’re a piss-poor fisherman!”
Another shotgun cocks.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Hey! Lower the—”
Boom. Boom.
I shove the door open and rush into the house to see Commodore aiming for a second shot from his motorized chair. Blood drips down his face.
“Missed me, you bastard!”
“Sir, you’re bleeding!”
Goose hops up off the boards of the deck and trots toward me. The damn dog is a hell of a lot less concerned by the guns being fired than I am.
Commodore shakes his head, splattering blood on the leather armrest. “Shrapnel. Just a scratch. Gable’s buckshot took a chunk out of the goddamn house. Now I’m gonna break his windows.”
“Cease fire or I’m calling the cops on both of you!” I yell loud enough so there’s no way Magnus can’t hear me, even being partially deaf.
“You raised a pussy, Riscoff!” Magnus yells. “My kin would grab a gun and join in!”
I pull out my cell phone, not in the mood to get shot this morning. “Last chance before I dial the sheriff.”
Commodore shoots me a cutting look. “Put the damn phone away. You’re making me look bad.” Blood streams down the side of his face, turning his white beard red.
“Here’s the deal—you put the feud on hold for first aid and business, and then you two can go back to shooting each other all you want after I’m gone.”
Commodore’s glare would frighten the piss out of a lesser man, but I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I’m not about to let Magnus Gable put a bullet in him today, not when I’m still working out my strategy for going after his grand-niece.
Commodore wipes the blood away from his face and looks down at his hand. “Superglue and duct tape are in the kitchen drawer. I don’t need no damn first-aid kit. And mind yourself when you’re talking to me. You don’t run me, son. I run you. Don’t forget it.”
My jaw clenches at the reminder. “Maybe I should just let the two of you kill each other, and then I’d have a hell of a lot less problems to deal with.”
Commodore sputters as I head for the kitchen.
I respect the man and the sacrifices he made to get Riscoff Holdings to where it is today, but he’s living in the past, and by staying there, we’re not going to thrive. I spent last night reviewing information on the acquisition I want to make, not only because I was trying to keep my mind off Whitney, but also because we have to diversify again. Otherwise, we’re going to wither instead of flourish.
Commodore isn’t going to like it. I already know it, but I need his sign-off to enter the auction process to get our hands on one of the most lucrative new tech companies that has the intellectual property we need to revolutionize the next generation of transportation.
I grab a handful of paper towels and yank open drawers in the kitchen to find the old man’s supplies. What he needs is a keeper. The last drawer holds a bunch of papers and odds and ends. Superglue is at the front, and I grab and pull out the documents to dig for the duct tape.
I still when my gaze catches on a letter falling out of a manila envelope—with my father’s name at the top.
What the hell?
I forget all about the two old men with shotguns pointed at each other and pull it out. Five words stand out in stark relief.
Request for a paternity test
What the fuck?
I scan the rest of the document. It’s dated three months ago. The letterhead says it’s from a lawyer’s office in New York. They want a DNA sample . . . from my deceased father.
Fuck the superglue and the duct tape. Commodore can bleed until he tells me what the hell this is about and why he hasn’t mentioned it. I grip the letter and stalk out to the deck, my back to Magnus Gable’s house.
“What the fuck is this?” I hold up the paper. “Who wants a paternity test?”
Commodore lowers his shotgun to rest on his lap and turns the chair to face me. “Put that back.”
“Not a chance. You need to tell me what the hell is going on. If there’s someone who’s trying to take a piece of the family holdings because they think it’s a get-rich-quick scheme, our lawyers need to shut it down as quick as possible.”
Commodore’s expression tightens. “It’s nobody’s damn business but mine.”
I study the old man who I’ve always known to be absolutely ruthless when it comes to his business adversaries, not to mention this stupid feud with the Gables, and something isn’t right.
“You should be crushing this person. Why are you hiding it? Do you think there’s a chance this is legit?”
His gaze flicks down to the deck. He stows the shotgun more securely and his chair buzzes as it rolls toward me. “We can talk about this inside. Don’t need to chance Gable overhearing about our dirty laundry.”
I step out of the way as Commodore disappears into the living room. Once we’re both inside, I shut the door.
“You do think it’s legit then.”
He turns around to face me, but his expression is unreadable. He inhales and releases a long breath as one thumb taps on the wooden stock of the shotgun. My brain races faster with every passing moment that he doesn’t answer.
“It wasn’t like Roosevelt was a saint. Wouldn’t be all that surprising if he spread a few bastards around.”
Commodore might as well have shot me in the gut. Roosevelt is my father. Or rather, was.
“Are you serious?” I’ve never thought of my father as a saint. Far from it, but the idea of him having other children isn’t something I ever thought I’d have to consider.
What. The. Fuck?
“It’s possible,” Commodore says simply.
“And what are you doing about it? We need to know. We need to make decisions. Act. Have a strategy.”
My mind flies along at a million miles an hour. The Riscoff family succession has never been questioned. From the day I was born, I’ve been the Riscoff heir. For over 170 years, the company and estate have been handed down to the oldest male descendant, and every other descendant is legally entitled to nothing.
“I’ve been handling it. Quietly, because I don’t want the family name dragged through the dirt again.” His gaze narrows on me. “We don’t need that.”
“You told them they can’t get a DNA sample, right?”
Commodore nods slowly, suddenly looking like he’s aged twenty years. “They want to exhume the body. Latest letter gave me thirty days to agree before they file a petition with the court.”
My head fills with static.
They want to crack open my father’s casket. Remove his body. All to see if there’s another potential Riscoff heir who could claim the family’s assets.
This is not happening.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” My voice comes out rough as I shake my head. I meet the old man’s gaze. “What did they say when you told them no way in hell?”
He lifts his chin. “I haven’t replied. I’m still thinking on it.”
I blink twice, staring at him like I don’t understand the language he’s speaking. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy. I make the decisions.” He grips both arms of his chair. “We don’t need this in court. How do you think that would make us look? And your mother? She’d lose her goddamn mind.”
The reality of the situation hits me. If they dig up my father, my mother is going to have a heart attack. Maybe not literally, but close enough. She could never handle this. But why would Commodore Riscoff, the man who refuses to be forced into anything, allow this?
“They wanted a settlement and you said no, didn’t you?”
He nods sharply. “That’s when they came back with the exhumation request.”
“Fuck. They must think this person is truly my father’s son, and older than me. That’s the only way it makes financial sense to pursue it.” I meet the old man’s gaze. “You want to hand everything over to a complete stranger? Someone who hasn’t worked himself to the bone for the last decade to protect and preserve your legacy?”
Commodore’s gaze turns flinty. “I don’t like any of it. And I haven’t kicked the bucket yet. I can change my will anytime I want. You’d do well to remember that, boy. I still get to decide who gets what. No family tradition binds me if I change my mind.”
My head drops back and I stare up at the wood-plank ceiling, desperately trying to find control amidst the chaos that has just been unleashed on my life. When I’ve gathered myself, I meet the old man’s dark brown eyes.
“What do you want me to do? Because we can make this go away. They need a court order for the exhumation.”
His jaw clenches. “I haven’t decided what I want to do yet. But it’d make me feel a hell of a lot better if I knew the family line was going to continue.”
I stare at him, unsure why I’m shocked, but I am. “That’s how you’re going to play this? You want me to knock up some woman and hope it’s a boy so you can feel good about the family line continuing?”
His lips flatten and his stare turns hard. “Marry whoever that woman is before you knock her up.”
“I’ve played your games for years.” I take a step toward him, my hands balled into fists. “I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked of me, but I draw the line here.”
Heavy silence hangs between us before Commodore leans back in his chair.
“You don’t want to see to making sure we have a new generation of Riscoffs? Then there’s no reason for me not to find out who this other heir might be.”
My teeth threaten to shatter from the intensity of my jaw clenching. When I’ve got a grip on the rage coursing through my veins, I finally speak. “That’s how you’re going to play it?”
Commodore smiles like he’s Niccolò Machiavelli himself. “You’ll fall in line. You always do. Just make sure it’s not that Gable girl.”