39. Penn

Chapter 39

Penn

I stride into my father’s house, whistling a little tune that I know will carry through these fancy ass stone walls to wherever my father has perched his evil, overdressed ass.

“Daddy, I’m home!” My voice rings out with a sing-song cadence, dripping with mock innocence. “I fear I have something to tell you that will ruin your day, and that makes me giddy.”

There’s a sanctimonious pause as my words hang in the air, just long enough for the servants to scatter like cockroaches. I imagine Robert perched in his study, surrounded by leather-bound volumes of Machiavellian wisdom and ledgers soaked in blood money. He always did think of himself as some kind of omnipotent puppet master.

I stroll down the hallway until I come upon the open door of his lair , surrounded by mahogany shelves lined with books and the lingering scent of cigar smoke. He doesn’t even flinch at my entrance. Just sits there behind his massive oak desk, eyes flicking up from some document as if I’m nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Penn Robert,” he says, his voice as smooth and chilling as ice sliding down your spine. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“Oh, nothing much,” I reply, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe. “Just thought you should know I killed our friend, John St. Pierre.”

His eyebrow arches ever so slightly—a minuscule gesture really, but one that sends waves of satisfaction through me.

“That’s right,” I continue, my voice dripping with gleeful poison. “Hogtied, shattered a few bones, a couple of cuts and then flambéed for what he did to Reagan and what he tried to do to her sister.”

With an almost theatrical nonchalance, he shrugs. A shrug. Like I just told him I ran over the neighbor’s cat or something equally mundane.

“He hurt my wife,” I continue, my voice level and just as mundane as his attitude. “Sold her as a fucking child and then tried to do the same to her sister. I’d kill him all over again if I could.”

“Is that so?” His tone is flat, devoid of any real emotion. Next thing I know he’s going to want to discuss the weather.

“Yeah, that’s fucking so,” I finally snap, stepping closer until I’m looming over him. “You hear me, old man? I ended him. For Reagan. For her sister. Hell, maybe even for me.”

“Well,” Robert says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his chest. “Seems you’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” I bark out a bitter laugh. “Is that all you have to say? I killed a very valuable business partner of yours, and you’re sitting there like we’re talking about stock prices. ”

“Stocks are more predictable,” he replies, his lips curling into a cold, thin smile. “People, less so.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Am I?” he asks, raising an eyebrow again, this time with a hint of amusement. “Or am I exactly what you’ve always known me to be?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I growl, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know there’s truth in them. Robert Blackwood has never been anything other than a calculating son of a bitch.

“Your actions, however…are somewhat interesting,” he muses, almost to himself. “But then, you’re a Blackwood. We don’t do things by halves, do we?”

“Save the philosophical bullshit,” I spit. “I did what had to be done.”

“I see your emotions are playing peek-a-boo,” he says dryly. “Maybe rein that in.”

“My emotions are fucking fine.”

“Indeed,” he says, dismissively returning to his papers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

I grit my teeth. The urge to punch something, preferably his fucking face is simmering just beneath the surface. “Oh, of course. Can’t keep the empire waiting.” The sarcasm in my voice so fucking thick we could choke on it.

Robert doesn’t even look up, just casually flips through another document. “Oh, Penn. It’s adorable that you think I haven’t anticipated your little outbursts.” He finally locks eyes with me, a thin smile playing at his lips. “You did me a favor, whether you realize it or not. John was an idiot and never updated his living trust. Everything he owned now belongs to Reagan. He couldn’t have done me a better favor.”

The realization hits me like a freight train. “You’re saying everything John St. Pierre touched is now hers?”

“Which means,” Robert continues, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, “it’s Blackwood property now.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just a cold, bitter irony. “So that’s what this is about. Just another goddamn business deal.”

“What did you think this was?” He stands up and adjusts his suit jacket, every motion calculated and deliberate. “This was always about securing more power and influence.”

“I hope you choke on it,” I mutter under my breath.

“No, I don’t think I will, son,” he replies smoothly as he walks past me toward the door. “I’m practical.” He turns back briefly, his gaze piercing through me like a blade. “And if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d realize I’ve just handed you an empire on a silver platter.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient?” I snap, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You get to play puppet master yet again, pulling strings and watching us dance to your sick little tune. Must be nice. Real nice.”

Robert’s eyes flicker up from his desk, the cold calculation never leaving them. “Your sarcasm is noted, Penn. But it changes nothing.”

“Of course not,” I scoff, leaning back against the doorframe. It never does.

I watch him move with infuriating calmness as he collects his coat from the rack by the door. “I do have other good news,” he says almost cheerfully, like he’s discussing the weather. “Graham took some steps before your dramatic entrance. The doctors believe he’ll make a decent recovery... though his football career is still uncertain.”

Just what I wanted to hear—a silver lining wrapped in barbed wire.

He tosses his coat over one shoulder and turns to face me fully, a commanding presence that stills the surrounding air. “Now, be a good son and drive me to the hospital so I can visit my youngest.”

“Sure thing,” I reply with exaggerated enthusiasm, giving him a mock salute. “Happy to be your goddamn chauffeur.”

Robert quirks an eyebrow but says nothing more as we head out the door. We walk in silence to my car because I don’t have anything else to say to him. Could I have told him to get fucked? Yeah, of course, but I’ve already crossed lines and I’m praying he doesn’t take it out on anyone else.

As we drive through the dark streets toward the hospital, I can’t help but hope my father keeps his fucking mouth shut because I’m just a trigger finger away from shooting him.

“You know,” Robert says suddenly, breaking the silence but not looking at me, “for all your faults and there are many, you do have a certain knack for getting things done.”

It takes everything in me not to swerve off the road.

“Gee, thanks for the glowing review,” I reply dryly.

“But don’t let it get to your head,” he warns. “Remember who taught you everything you know. I made you and I can take you the fuck out.”

How could I ever fucking forget?

His words grasp like a pair of hands tightening around my neck, and I grip the steering wheel. Memories flood back, unbidden, from that summer when Robert pulled me away from the camaraderie of my brothers’ and home and thrust me into a hellish training program that made boot camps look like summer camps.

It was in a remote cabin nestled deep in the woods just on the other side of Wraithwick, far from any prying eyes. The air there tasted different—thicker, tinged with the metallic scent of blood and sweat. The mornings began before dawn, with them barking orders before the first light crept over the horizon. Sleep was a luxury afforded only to those who had no ambitions.

“Rise and shine, Penn,” the man I nicknamed No Neck would say, his voice as cold as the steel blades I was forced to train with. “The world won’t wait for you to catch up.”

He’d paired me with Viktor, an ex-military brute who seemed to live off adrenaline and cruelty. Viktor’s methods were unorthodox and harsh and always left me battered, bruised, and bloody. I quickly learned that hesitation could be fatal as I worked under Viktor’s relentless watch.

“Focus on your target,” Viktor would hiss when I faltered. “Distraction is the prelude to death.”

I spent hours honing my physical skills all while enduring mental exercises designed to break even the strongest willpower. Deprivation techniques, psychological warfare, simulations that blurred the line between reality and nightmare.

Yet, it wasn’t just about breaking down; it was about rebuilding to my father’s specifications. Viktor taught me control. How to harness rage, how to silence my mind even amidst chaos. Despite his brutality, there was an underlying method designed to craft me into Robert’s weapon.

One night stands out among all others. An assessment designed not only to test every skill I’d acquired but also to push me beyond any conceivable limit .

Hours blurred into each other as I killed them. All of them. My trainers, every single one of them. Because in the words of Robert Blackwood, ‘dead men tell no tales’.

When dawn finally broke and I was covered in blood and brains and barely standing, I heard the slow clap of my father as he looked at me and saw the maniacal grin splitting my face as I had my little menty b.

“Congratulations, son,” Robert had said as if bestowing some perverse blessing. “You’ve survived.” There was no pride in his eyes; only calculation, as if assessing whether his investment had paid off.

That’s the summer that fundamentally changed me and one day my father will die by the very weapon he created, but for now I shut the fuck up and pull up to the hospital.

Tick tock, tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock.