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“You take pride in it?” his father asked. “Being the bastard of a whore. An abomination.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your bastard as well,” Harte said, clenching his teeth around the word.

Before his father could answer that charge, a waiter arrived with a pitcher of water, and an uneasy silence descended over the table while it was being poured. Harte’s and his father’s eyes remained locked, and after the waiter left, his father spoke again. “It’s clear you don’t even care about the hell you put me through.”

“I certainly wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for an apology,” Harte said coldly.

“I would never expect one from the likes of you,” his father said. “You know, I understood what you’d done the second you touched me that day.” It confirmed Harte’s suspicions about why he’d been keeping the distance between them. “I knew exactly what was happening, how you’d cursed me. I didn’t want to leave New York. I wasn’t ready yet, but I couldn’t stop myself. Because of your evil spell, I was ranting like a madman when I crossed the bridge out of the city. The compulsion to keep moving didn’t stop until I reached Brooklyn, but by then I’d already caught the notice of an officer, who thought I was drunk.”

“You were,” Harte reminded him. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’d passed out in your own vomit, a glass of liquor still in your hand.”

His father ignored this fact. “They put me in jail rather than into a sanitarium, and they left me there for weeks.”

“If you ask me, they should’ve left you longer,” Harte said, unable to dredge up any sympathy at all.

His father glared at him. “You have no idea what I suffered in that place, how terrible it was to come off the drink with no help and no comfort. But by the time I was sober, I realized I was no longer compelled to return to your mother’s side as I had been for years.”

“My mother didn’t compel you to stay and torture us.”

“Didn’t she?” Samuel gave a dry, ugly laugh. “Go on and tell yourself stories about what a saint she was, but Molly O’Doherty was nothing but a common bit of trash.”

Harte’s fists clenched. “Watch yourself, old man.”

But his father ignored the not-so-veiled threat. “Once your mother had her claws in me, I couldn’t break away. Only the liquor helped make any of it livable. But as soon as I crossed the bridge, I was free, well and truly—from the evils of drink and from the abomination that was your mother.”

“You’re lying,” Harte spat, unwilling to believe that anything that came from this man’s mouth could be the truth.

“In the end, my suffering proved the strength of my soul,” his father said, lifting his chin as he ignored Harte’s accusation. “My trials forged me, cleansed me of my sins, and made me into a new man. A man worthy of claiming a new life. Eventually I was released, and I returned here to take up the life that was waiting for me.”

Harte still wasn’t sure how that could be possible. He’d ordered his father away from California, ordered him to forget this life.… Unless Samuel Lowe wasn’t lying about what Harte’s mother had done. If that was the case, maybe there was something about the Brink that had broken through the compulsion Harte had tried to force upon his father, just as it had broken through whatever his mother’s affinity might have done.

“My prosperity is evidence of my righteousness,” his father went on, unaware of Harte’s thoughts. “As I continue on the path, I continue to be rewarded—with my store, which prospers more every year. With a place in my city, and with a strong son who carries my name.”

I’m your son. Harte shook off the thought. He’d never wanted to claim this man’s name before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“I won’t let you upset the life I’ve built here,” his father continued.

“I’m only here for the Dragon’s Eye,” Harte reminded him. “Tell me where I can find it, and I’ll leave you to your righteousness and your rewards.”

“I told you. It’s impossible.” His father leaned forward, and there was panic in his eyes. “The Committee isn’t a bunch of unorganized brutes, like the gang bosses you grew up around.”

“You’re afraid of them,” Harte realized, not missing the way his father flinched at the accusation.

“My soul is blameless, my conscience clear,” Samuel Lowe said, avoiding the question. “But I can’t help you. I won’t.”

Harte kept his voice easy, but he made sure there was a note of menace in it as well. “I don’t think you quite understand. I’m not asking.”

Show him what you are, Seshat taunted, endlessly tempting. Make him see you now as he never has before.

It would be easy enough there, even with the prying eyes of the other diners, to reach across the table. It would be worth the risk to take his father by the hand—or by the throat.

The violence of the image shook Harte back to himself, and he looked at his outstretched hand, trying to remember when he’d raised it. His father had jerked back and was already reaching for his gun, when a commotion erupted on the other side of the restaurant—a clatter of dishes and metal serving plates. A waiter appeared suddenly, whispering an urgent rush of words to his father that Harte couldn’t quite make out. His father’s expression hardened as he nodded to the waiter.

Then Samuel Lowe turned to Harte. “We have to go. Now.”

A noise came from the front of the restaurant, and the waiter gestured urgently for them to follow. But Harte wasn’t going to allow himself to be distracted. Not when he was so close.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Not until I have what’s mine.”