Even in my office, which I’d insisted—like Georgia had with hers, like my father had always had with his—was clean and decorated (mine with a classic elegance; Georgia’s a modern sharpness; Dad’s a lavish obnoxiousness)—the windows were grimy (on the outside).

But my father’s father started the business there. Now Dad felt it sent a message. He was convinced in its top-to-bottom filth that it terrified anyone who might think they shouldn’t take us seriously.

He also felt it said we were one with our roots.

He was right.

My grandfather had been a lowlife thug who was willing to do anything for money and power.

And he did.

He’d done very well. He’d built an empire.

My father was also a lowlife thug with the same mission.

He wasn’t as successful.

I saw the double doors at the end of the hall, Gill standing outside them.

But I heard my father shouting.

“Is Georgia around?” I asked, eyes to Gill, my question aimed at Tommy who was at my heels.

“Nope,” Tommy answered.

That was not good.

I had very little hope of calming my father down. There was a slim chance, but it wasn’t much. I had more chance of earning his ire. His temper was quick, unpredictable and volatile. Although he seemed more in control of it around Georgia, otherwise, he didn’t discriminate.

But without Georgia at my side, or better, taking the lead, the highest likelihood was that whatever this was was not going to go well.

We got close to the door and Gill turned to it, knocked twice, loudly, put his hand to the handle and pushed it open.

My father’s shouting didn’t cease throughout all this.

Gill got out of our way and Tommy and I moved into the room. A room that was ridiculous. It had been ridiculous when my grandfather sat behind the massive, ostentatious desk. My father had just made it more ridiculous.

I had no time to ponder this oft-pondered thought.

Dad was shouting.

And he had a gun. A gun he was aiming at Green.

In other words, the situation was critical.

“Dad—” I called, moving into the room, but abruptly stopping and unable to fight back the wince and twist of my head when the gun went off, the loud sound cracking through the room.

Green shouted in agony and dropped to one knee.

Dad rounded the desk and advanced on his soldier, gun still raised.

“You tell me that shit?” he screamed. “You talk to your king that way?”

God, I hated that king business.

My grandfather started that too.

“Jesus, fuck, Jesus, fuck,” Green chanted, still down on a knee, one hand to his wound, blood oozing between his fingers. He tilted his head back and scowled at my father. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? You shot me!”