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.