Page 31 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

STORM

I pull my Porsche into the circle drive at my father’s Gold Coast mansion and cut the engine. The estate looks different in the waning fall daylight. Golden rays of sun make the flowers and shrubs glow where they line the intentionally distressed cobblestones leading to the side entrance.

It’s quiet, a moment of tranquility in the middle of the harshness of this city.

The silence almost feels like an attack with all the thoughts running through my brain.

What’s real? What’s fake? What have I got all wrong?

I don’t know what to believe when it comes to my father, Stratos, and Riale’s claims. What he told me feels so far out of the realm of possibility, I refuse to believe him at face value—at least, not without confronting my father directly.

So when my mother called me home for Sunday dinner to celebrate my father’s arrival back to the States, it’s like I was handed the perfect opportunity.

So, where does that leave me? Sitting in my car in front of a hundred-million-dollar mansion, contemplating if my entire life is about to explode.

Tick.

Tock.

Just a few minutes. I’ll give myself just a few minutes to look my father in the face and know if he’s innocent or in on this fuckery Riale swears is coming down the pike.

My phone beeps, and I reach for it on reflex.

You gonna sit in the car all night or what?

I release a huff, feeling my mood brighten a bit. I’m a Mama’s Boy, and I own that shit.

Depends. You got the goods?

It takes a few minutes, but she sends over a picture of baked macaroni and cheese, crispy golden edges and everything. I start to drool and slide out of the car.

Chuck Sandoval might have the staff do almost everything, but when it comes to my mama’s baked mac and cheese? There’s nothing coming between me and my plate.

Rounding the back of the Porsche, I start up the stone steps and enter the marble foyer once the butler—a new hire—opens the door with a detached look.

Behind him, men and women dressed in black move around the space with purpose. I assume they’re bodyguards, given the high-tech earbuds they wear and the clipped way they communicate.

What’s going on to require double the normal security?

“Where’s my father?” I ask the man still standing in front of me at the entrance.

“In the study, sir,” he intones, shifting his body to gesture in the direction as if I don’t know the home like the back of my hand. “But he is occupied at the moment.”

Occupied?

“And my mother?” I follow up.

“She’s in the kitchen, sir.”

Makes sense. I step away from the butler to head toward the back of the home, but stop near my father’s office at the volume of the voices inside.

“I said I handled it, Charles.” Lakeland’s voice makes me want to start stabbing things, but the menace in his tone forces me to take a step closer.

“Why?” My father asks, his voice just as hard. “You trust those people like they wouldn’t hesitate to eat your Black ass alive.”

Lakeland makes a low, amused sound.

“You weren’t saying that when I got your lame ass onto Isla Cara. How many models did you?—”

“You will leave Storm alone. Leave him out of this,” Dad says.

Lakeland actually laughs. “Or what?”

My father’s silence says more than anything.

“The FBI won’t be bothering you or your precious son anymore. You’re welcome,” Lakeland says.

“No,” Dad replies. “I don’t want any favors from you…or from them . You’ve done enough, and their help doesn’t come without a price. You know this.”

Dad makes an agitated sound.

“You need to get out, Lakeland. As your brother?—”

Lakeland hums, cutting Dad off.

“Why would I stop? I’m just getting started. And you could be just getting started, too, if you kept cool and played along.”

“Those people?—”

“Watch it,” Lakeland snaps. “Those people aren’t anyone to fuck with, Chuck. And you know that.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Or have you forgotten about Rainn?” Lakeland adds.

What?

I nearly jump out of my skin when my mother’s hand lands on my shoulder.

“Woah,” she says with a laugh and a smile. “What are you doing standing out here? And where’s my hug?”

I blink to clear the thoughts off my face and bend down to hug her. Her head goes to my chest, and I’m sure she can hear my heart racing.

“Storm?” she asks, pulling back with a frown.

“Ah, the man of the hour has arrived.” Lakeland’s tone leads me to sneer immediately. My father and Lakeland leave the office, all of us congregating in the open space outside the doors.

“What were you talking about?” I ask my father. Lakeland grins, but Dad looks angry.

Buttoning his suit jacket, Dad says, “Don’t worry about that. Everyone ready for dinner?”

My father slides on a slick smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, and my uncle leads the way toward the dining room.

“I’m always hungry, Charles. You know this,” he says in what I’m sure anyone else would have seen as a friendly tone.

I immediately recognized the subtext. Uncle Lakeland is always hungry—hungry for power, hungry for more.

Hungry for what should rightfully be mine.

Riale’s words from our kitchen conversation pop back into my mind, and I ask myself the question I’ve been struggling with since learning of my father’s alleged crimes.

Do I really want Stratos?

“Is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on?” I grind out, looking at my father and then at Lakeland.

My father seems annoyed, his mouth downturned as if my persistent questions are more than a nuisance.

“Company business,” Lakeland announces, and the statement has me wanting to shove the fire poker past his clavicle.

“Last I checked, I am still part of Stratos, despite my father’s recent proclamations,” I say. While not full time, I have worked under my father for the last four years as a Stratos employee.

“Hm,” Lakeland says. “You sure about that?”

A muscle in my temple twitches.

What?

I take a step toward him, prepared to shove him into the hearth and be done with all this when my father shouts, causing all of us to freeze.

“Storm! Let it go. It’s over.”

I turn slowly, inch by inch, to face my father head-on. I look at him—really look at him. He stands tall; his face is severe, but his eyes look exhausted.

Heavy.

Resigned.

“Pops,” I start, but Lakeland makes a sound, almost like summoning a dog, and he and my father leave the room.

What the fuck is happening right now?

“Not now, Storm.” My mom’s voice causes me to look away from my father and Lakeland as they laugh down the hall, heading toward the waiting dinner.

My mother brushes her hand over my arm as I stand frozen in place.

“Come,” she says softly. “Chef made everything else, but the mac and cheese is still hot.”

I follow her down the hallway, my stomach twisting into knots that have nothing to do with hunger.

The dining room table is already set—crystal glasses, fine china, linen napkins folded into elegant triangles.

A familiar tableau. A family picture meant to soothe among the roasted duck, green beans, and the lone dish of bubbly macaroni and cheese all served family style.

Nothing about the scene is soothing, especially not in the aftermath of what just happened outside the study.

There’s so much loaded into the short conversation I overheard, and my brain whirs like an old computer tower trying to sort through it all.

The FBI is now a non-factor for me and Dad. Why? Because Lakeland made it so?

Or have you forgotten about Rainn?

Dad takes his usual place at the head of the table, and Lakeland claims the opposite end like he owns the damn place. My mother sits to my father’s right. That leaves the seat across from her for me.

The seat that once belonged to my brother.

I sink into the chair and stare down the table at Lakeland, who’s swirling his wine like he’s contemplating the meaning of life.

My father ignores me; my mother smiles at me, but it’s more like a cringe.

It’s uncomfortable and tense.

“So,” Lakeland begins, tone light, “have you given any thought to what comes next, Storm?”

I grab the large serving spoon and scoop a corner piece of mac and cheese onto my plate.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to me.”

Lakeland’s smile grows wider.

“Well, with graduation just a few months out, you really should start putting a plan in place.”

“Are you fucking dumb, asshole?”

“Storm!” my mom says with a gasp.

“Just one dinner. I just wanted us to get one dinner.” This comes from my father.

“You know, indecision is its own choice,” Lakeland continues, but now my father glares at him.

I slam the serving spoon down hard enough to rattle the silverware.

Dad finally looks at me, completely unable to hide it: The shake behind the eyes. The flicker of bewilderment from someone who’s no longer calling the shots.

“Who is going to answer my questions. You or him, Dad?” I keep my voice low, directed only to my father.

His mouth tightens.

“You?” I tilt my head in Lakeland’s direction. “Or him?

And I’ll do whatever I need to get to the bottom of this shit.

Whatever I need to do.

“Storm,” my dad says, his voice a strained whisper. “You need to stop, son.”

Heat flares in my chest. “Stop what?”

“You need to stop asking questions.”

The sentence lands between us on the pristine tabletop.

“Dad,” I start, but he surges to his feet so fast that he knocks over the chair. It falls to the marble flooring with a loud clack.

“I’m no longer hungry,” he says, and he strides away from the table.

Mom whimpers, shaking her head slowly as if all is lost.

“Why can’t you let this go?” she murmurs, looking down at her empty plate. After a long moment of silence, she rises from the table and rushes off to find my father.

I let the quiet linger and pivot toward Lakeland. He has that stupid fucking smile on his face, the one that’s earned him the label of playboy younger brother of the billionaire savant, Chuck Sandoval.

To me, the twist of his lips feels demonic.

“Why don’t you just level with me, Lakeland? Tell me the truth about what’s going on.”