But that child doesn’t exist. Does it?

Ricky was cheating on me . . .

This can’t be happening.

My mind races as question after question flies through my brain until one finally sticks.

Why would Renee Rango wait until after Ricky died to file a paternity suit?

The answer seems so blindly obvious, I’m shocked it didn’t occur to me sooner. Ricky was her golden ticket to Easy Street—and now he’s gone, and he left her nothing. She didn’t even have enough money to battle the bank when it went after his future royalties. Royalties for songs I wrote.

That fact burns now more than ever before.

“All because of the money . . .” I whisper the words to myself, but Commodore’s hearing is sharp, and his attention turns back to me.

“Why else would someone cause this big of a mess if they weren’t after money? It always comes back to money.”

“Not always,” I say. “Some people don’t give a shit about how much money your family has.”

The old man’s gaze narrows. “You may be the only person who could say that and I might actually believe you.”

“Believe whatever you want, but if Lincoln’s last name weren’t Riscoff and he didn’t come with a billion-dollar inheritance, things would’ve been a whole lot different ten years ago.”

“I haven’t settled my will quite yet, girl, so it’s a good thing you’re not attached to him for the money.”

“I’m not attached to him at all,” I say, my tone full of false confidence.

“I’d tell you you’re lying, but you already know that.”

I hate that Commodore calls me out so effectively, but even more, I hate that I’m this affected by Lincoln. I need to exorcise him from my soul. But if I couldn’t do it over the last ten years, how in the hell am I going to do it now?

“You don’t know shit, old man.”

“Watch your mouth, girl. That temper of yours will be your downfall. If you let someone make you angry, you give them control over you.”

“I don’t need your advice on how to live my life. I’m doing just fine on my own.”

He crosses his arms over his chest as the Escalade rumbles over a bridge, and one of his bushy white eyebrows disappears into his hairline. “You’re a terrible liar, Ms. Gable.” I turn away, but he keeps speaking. “You’d do well to learn that not everyone shares that quality. Be careful who you trust. Most people will never deserve it.”

“So that’s the Riscoff way? Don’t trust anyone?” I say the words to taunt him, but Commodore nods.

“Proof before trust. Even with your own blood.”

He goes quiet as we approach Magnus’s driveway, but my brain is caught on what he just said. This is the man who groomed Lincoln to assume control of an empire from the day he was born. That sentiment has probably been drilled into him over and over.