4. Emerson

Iwas glad when my father and I stepped through into the lounge, the door closing me off from Roland's penetrating gaze. The way he watched me with such intensity and heat, I always craved it, but with how vulnerable I was currently feeling, it wouldn't take much to make me spill my guts to him, and that simply wasn't an option. It was impossible to disguise my emotions from him when under the glaring lights of the lobby, but here, within the more private shadows, I felt the first hint of relief I'd felt all day.

Much of the hotel glistened and sparkled with obvious wealth, marble and crystal and bright lights, but the lounge was like another world entirely. It was all gleaming mahogany, dark walls and floor, and thick velvet curtains between the booths to give a sense of privacy. Tiffany lamps suspended over the tables gave a more subtle warm glow, though no less luxurious. Instead of shouting of glitz and glamor, it whispered of nighttime secrets.

I headed straight for a booth in the back, as far from other patrons as possible, nodding at the bartender on the way by. "A bottle of scotch, please, Timothy, and two glasses."

I slid onto the bench, my back to the wall so I could face the room. "Let's get this over with," I muttered. The leather upholstery was cool to the touch, but I knew it would soon warm beneath me, a small bit of comfort.

My father dropped into the booth across from me, steepling his hands on the table. "I haven't seen you in months. Shouldn't we catch up?"

"No," I said shortly. There was no need; nothing ever changed. I worked impossible hours, while he did whatever it was that he did all day, wasting the money I tried so hard to manage. "Just tell me whatever it was you couldn't say over the phone."

For all his pompous attitude, I was surprised to see an emotion cross his face that looked a lot like remorse. He opened his mouth to speak but paused as Delia approached the table with our scotch, as well as a tray with two glasses and a small container of ice cubes. "Good evening, sir," she said softly, almost somberly. She was very good at reading people, and I could see she likely had a better grasp of what was going on than I did.

"Thank you, Miss Carmichael," I said, not unkindly but with a firm dismissal. She nodded and left.

Neither my father nor I spoke for a long moment, the silence stretching between us until it was taut and brittle. Father busied himself with pouring us each two fingers of scotch, dropping an ice cube in each glass, then slid the drink across the table to me before he finally cleared his throat, ready to begin.

"This hotel was your grandfather's dream. He came to this country with his young wife, prepared to work hard. After the first world war, the economy was flourishing. Auto and airline industries were booming, and he saw this as the perfect time to invest. He was determined to turn his dream into a reality, and nothing would stand in his way."

I frowned, spinning my glass on the table in front of me and watching the ice cube slowly melt. "That was almost a hundred years ago. What does this have to do with our current financial problems?"

He shook his head sadly. "It has everything to do with it." He sighed and took a deep swallow of his scotch, nearly draining his glass in one go. When he set his glass down, he seemed reluctant to say more, but he clearly had no choice. He was cornered. "I wish I could say my father was a good man, that he was loyal to my mother, that he maintained that strong work ethic through his life, but… it wouldn't be the truth. In reality, he struggled to get a foothold here. He didn't know anyone, had no family here to support him, and he ended up working low-paying jobs, struggling just to put food on the table. My mother wanted children, but they simply couldn't afford it. He decided there had to be another way… an easier way…"

"Easier," I repeated, my unease morphing into dread.

My father nodded, not meeting my eyes. "He got a job working for a man named Barbieri. This was during prohibition, and through Barbieri, my father got into bootlegging, helping with the manufacture and distribution of moonshine. He worked his way up through the organization quickly, with his willingness to do anything, commit any crime, no atrocity too great. And to reward him for his efforts… he and Barbieri came to an agreement."

My breath skittered past my lips as I tried to keep my breathing steady. "What kind of agreement?" I asked, though every fiber of my being told me I didn't want to know.

"Barbieri built the hotel using dirty money. My father's name was on the paperwork, every inch the respectable businessman, all very legit, but there was nothing clean about it. They laundered money, had an illegal gambling hall, prostitution, loan sharking. You name it, they had their hand in it."

"I always thought he started the hotel with family money." My stomach twisted dangerously, and I took a swallow of my drink to keep the acid from crawling up my throat, welcoming the burn. "And you? What did you do when you took over?" I asked darkly, glaring across the table at the man who'd raised me. How had I not known any of this? What other secrets was he keeping?

The accusation finally brought his eyes up to mine, a cold fire lit from within. "Nothing. I'm not my father. When I took over the hotel, I put an end to all of it. Except…"

"Except what?" I spat, clenching the cut-crystal glass in my fist. If it had been a cheaper glass, it would've cracked for sure.

"Except it didn't matter," he growled back, glaring at me. "You can't just cut ties with the mafia. It doesn't work like that. Even doing everything aboveboard, I still had to pay them their cut of the profits. My father was dead, but this was a generational kind of debt." He grabbed the bottle to refill his glass, spilling when his hand shook. "Barbieri is long gone, but do you think that matters? I took over the hotel, and meanwhile, Barbieri's business was handed down, until it ended up with Bruno Santana."

Now that was a name I recognized, and I was suddenly glad for the warm leather bench beneath me, helping to hold back the creeping chill taking over my body. Bruno Santana was a well-known gangster who dealt with human trafficking and drugs. "But… wasn't he arrested?" I'd followed the story in the press. "The FBI took him down, right? Along with a bunch of his associates after some tech whiz got their hands on some incriminating evidence. All the networks covered the court case. They were sentenced, they'll die in prison. The mob was shut down, and the last mayor, Philip Black, disappeared."

"Mm-hm," he murmured, nodding. "Sure, but when you put out one wildfire, another pops up somewhere else. And in this case, that fire is Eva Ward."

"The new mayor?" I asked breathlessly. My chest was tightening and making it hard to catch a full breath. I bit back a moan. "I can't compete with this, Dad. The hotel is a good business on its own, but I can't afford to keep paying her off. What would happen if we just stopped?"

"Do you really want to risk finding out? They're the fucking mob, Emerson," he seethed, before tempering his reaction, smoothing down his tie. He cleared his throat. "I know we're fighting a backward slide, which is why I had a little chat with Ms. Ward this afternoon, and we came up with a solution that will benefit us all." He sat back, and while his hands were steady once more, he'd gone back to avoiding my gaze. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like this.

"You did?" I asked suspiciously.

His lips thinned into a hard line. "I know how much you love this place. You've put so much time and effort into it. I'm proud of you, Son. You've shown yourself to have a solid business sense, and a good businessman is always willing to make sacrifices…"

The dread was back, pooling in my gut and slithering through my limbs, because I knew with absolute certainty that my father wouldn't be the one sacrificing anything. It would be me. It was always me. "What's this solution?"

"You will marry Eva Ward."

"What?!" I sputtered, shock like a sledgehammer to the chest.

"The hotel will become half hers, and we will no longer need to make payments to her." He saw the panic taking over me and held his hands up to forestall any argument I might have. "It's not without benefits for you as well, I promise. Not only will you get to keep running the hotel as you see fit, but she will allow you to be a part of several of her other ventures. She has a mansion, and she's a beautiful woman. I'm sure you can—"

The glasses jumped as I slammed my fists down on the table. "No!" I shouted, seeing red. Conversations around the room tapered off as heads turned in our direction to see what was going on.

"Now, Son, you're not thinking clearly. Just give it some time, I'm sure you'll get used to the idea."

Except there was no chance I would ever get used to it. I refused to. I shoved my way out of the booth and stormed off, my father calling behind me, "We'll talk about this later." There was nothing to talk about as far as I was concerned.

I had always been a calm man, a well-tempered alpha. Just like my dad taught me, I saw the benefit in using words over fists, but for once, I so desperately wanted to break something, to hurt someone. My pulse rushed in my ears as my blood pressure spiked.

I'd done everything I could to keep this place afloat, and meanwhile, I was always going to lose. As desperation took over, the anger seeped out, and I found myself stalled in the middle of the hotel lobby. That was it, I supposed. It was done. All this struggling for nothing.

Feeling his gaze, there was no mistaking who was watching me. I knew him like I knew my own reflection, and I turned to look at Roland, watching me from the front desk. His eyes were so sad, worried for me, and I hated so much that I was the cause of that worry. Without conscious decision, my legs took me straight to him, and while I could've overridden the action, I decided to indulge myself for a moment, to find relief in his presence. Didn't I deserve that much?

I stopped beside him, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. His scent was so alluring, but when I tried to breathe through my mouth instead, it was like I could taste him on my tongue. That only made everything so much worse.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly, tenderly. His hands twitched as though he was considering reaching for me.

I wanted nothing more than to take refuge in his arms, to tell him what my father wanted me to do and have him tell me that everything would be okay, and I wanted to be able to believe him.

Instead, I shuttered my emotions and schooled my expression, stepping back to avoid the temptation. "Nothing is wrong," I heard myself say, my voice surprisingly even considering the war being waged in my heart. "I'm going home. Have a good night, Mr. Stohl." I turned away before I could see his reaction and headed for the door.

Though we'd never crossed that line between us, we were somehow still too close, too entwined for a boss and his employee. I needed to say goodbye to him once and for all. Roland deserved better than the disaster coming my way. Because I either had to fire everyone… or commit to a woman I could never love.