Page 4 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

My mouth goes dry as the world narrows down to my father. He did…what?

My hands begin to shake, and my palms itch with the overwhelming urge to commit patricide. My father has done a lot of fucked-up shit over my lifetime, but giving my inheritance to Lakeland?

Fucking Lakeland?

The cheers and clinking glasses feel miles away, muffled by the haze of disbelief clouding my head. Lakeland? My uncle ? The man who hadn’t even shown an interest in the fund until a few years ago?

Bambi’s hand squeezes my shoulder, but it barely registers. She’s saying something—words of comfort, maybe, or a reminder not to go the fuck off in front of everyone—but it doesn’t matter.

Nothing does, except for the fact that everything I’ve worked toward has just slipped out from under me.

My fists clench so tightly my knuckles feel like they’re going to punch through my skin; the sharp sting of my fingernails digging into my palm does little to keep me grounded.

The laughter, the applause, it all rings hollow. I can’t look away from my father, who stands there, basking in the approval of his audience. He catches my gaze, and for a fleeting second, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret? Pity? Satisfaction?

Fear?

I can’t tell, and that uncertainty only fuels the anger simmering beneath the surface.

Lakeland catches my eye, offering a smirk that’s more smug than celebratory, as if he’s fully aware of the blow my father’s just dealt.

Bambi murmurs, “Storm, don’t. Not here.”

But I can’t hold it in any longer. I push past the knot of well-wishers and step right up to my father, forcing a smile onto my face as I say, “Dad, may I have a word with you in private?”

A few heads turn, curious, but my father simply nods, setting his champagne flute aside. “Of course, son.” He pats Lakeland on the back. When he grins, it looks strained. “Carry on without me, everyone.”

The whispers follow us as I lead him out of the room and down the hall to the study, each step pounding like a drumbeat against my temples. The moment the door closes, the facade drops, and I let the anger boil over.

“ Lakeland? ” I hiss. I want to be composed. I want to be able to present the fact rationally, calmly, as to why he’s making a big fucking mistake.

But all that comes out is rage.

Everything. Every moment, every late-night study sprint, every day I spent interning and learning under his thumb was for…nothing.

It was all for nothing.

No. I refuse.

More lightning crackles across the sky from outside the wall of windows, and the thunder shakes the panes.

With a deep sigh, my father lowers himself into the oversized leather desk chair, leaning back and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

“Son. I can see you’re upset,” he says, sounding tired.

I sniff. “Gee, I wonder why,” I snap.

He arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Storm, it’s not enough to simply want the role,” he says slowly, choosing each word with maddening precision. “I have my reasons for my decisions, and they’re not up for debate.”

The words tear out of me, sharp and bitter. “How many years have I spent working toward being your successor? I’ve done everything you asked. Everything you demanded—and beyond.”

“And yet here we are,” he replies coolly. “It is what it is, Storm. Accept it. Deal with it.”

The dismissal in his tone sends a fresh wave of anger through me.

“What’s the difference between me and him? Lakeland didn’t give a damn about this fund until you started showing up in Forbes. He’s here because you handed him everything on a silver platter.”

My father studies me in silence, his expression unreadable, and then he leans forward, folding his hands on the desk. “I know this feels unfair, but this is how it has to be. You can’t be the next in line.”

I bristle. What more do I need to give this man?

“I studied for and passed the SIE as a freshman in college. I got my Series 7 two months later. I could deal in securities before I could drink legally. I’ve done the things, Father. So yes, this is fucking unfair.”

He stands in one smooth movement before heading to the mini bar in the corner of his office. Without turning to me, he says, “We took a hit after the Banks and James…situation.”

Jeremy Banks and Chris James were the CEOs of a startup in the health-tech space.

Their product promised the ability to create a DNA-based health plan with a simple blood draw, including future risk factors, within a few minutes.

The prototypes looked promising…but they bamboozled investors out of hundreds of millions of dollars in the end.

There was a congressional inquiry and a year and a half of headaches and ulcers around the Stratos office because we’d been one of their principal investors.

It was not a good time.

“How much of a hit?” I ask.

Father sighs as he pours two fingers of scotch each into two low tumblers.

“Enough of a hit that our investors are antsy. Antsy enough to start talking about leaving the fund.”

Well, shit. The entire principle of a hedge fund was to get wealthy people to hand over their money so they can get wealthier—and we get a significant cut in return for our work.

Without investors, the fund goes defunct.

“Is Stratos about to go under?”

Father laughs and turns with both glasses in his hands.

“Stratos? Go under? Never,” he replies. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t have a problem. Lakeland is going to fix it.” He hands one of the tumblers to me.

I stare hard at his hand as another rumble of thunder explodes.

“Calm down, Storm,” my father says, placing a glass in my hand. When he pats me on the upper arm, my shoulders drop.

Dad’s face changes as he leans back against his desk, and the man who took me under his wing and put Band-Aids on my scrapes and cuts as a child resurfaces.

“Storm,” he says, the word sounding heavy. He drops the glass onto his desk and takes one step and then another toward me before putting his palms on my shoulders.

He says, “You know I’m always looking out for you…and I have a?—”

“Fiduciary responsibility to Stratos and our investors—yes, I know,” I cut in. He pats my right cheek.

“Right,” he says. “You will be an excellent leader someday, son. Think of it this way: You’re now free to do whatever you want. Every sacrifice I’ve made is worth it for you to have your freedom.”

I stare back at him, trying to breathe through my anger and disappointment and this energy that makes me want to rage against this entire place. He’s trying to placate me, to offer nice words to make this feel less shitty.

But then a thought floats through—the thought I usually manage to push down.

He wanted Rainn instead.

The memory of my dead older brother slices cold across my chest, reminding me that I was the spare. I was always meant to be second best.

No one counted on the inevitability of my older brother, my only sibling, dying in a car crash on I-94.

“I’ll do what’s needed to prove to you that I’m the best choice, and you’ll change your mind.”

My father stares at me, a sad look crossing his face. “I hope, with time, you can understand.”

“Don’t be too hard on your father,” my mom says. She waited outside the office and followed me—silently—back to the place we both retreat to when Chuck fucks up.

The art studio.

Mom loves watercolors, and I picked up glass blowing after Rainn died. We’ve converted the three-car garage into an art barn.

In one corner is my kiln, workbench, annealer, and propane torch setup; in the loft on the opposite side is where my mother paints in the sunrise, facing the tall wall of windows circling the structure.

But the sun is long gone now, and the late-summer breeze whistles through the studio when I push open the industrial doors on opposing ends.

“I’ll be hard on him when he does stupid shit. That’s his problem. He thinks that because he’s the Chosen One—one of the only niggas to leave Gary, Indiana and make something of himself since the Jacksons—he can do whatever, and it’ll turn out gold. He can make dumb decisions, too.”

Mom makes a small, distressed sound, and it’s one I know all too well. She’s seconds away from crying and has already crossed the line into fretting.

She hates being in the middle of me and my pops, but what the hell am I supposed to do? Take this lying down?

Fuck. No.

“Ma, come on.” I tip my head back, eyes closed. “He and I will figure it out. Just let it be.”

With me in charge of Stratos when the old man finally does step down.

My mother’s touch on the side of my face has me straightening, and I look down on her short frame as she caresses my cheek. I inherited her green-brown eyes, but not the light-gold skin tone she got from her Mississippi Creole heritage.

I’m closer to my dad’s skin tone: a few shades lighter than rich mahogany.

“You were always such an intense boy, Storm, and I have and always will love that about you. But it always worried me too, because I never knew how to protect you from that intensity. How to protect you from yourself.”

My eyebrows come together, trying to understand what the hell she’s saying.

“I don’t want your anger to burn you to pieces, Storm. I don’t want you to destroy yourself. And this stuff with your dad and Stratos? It’s not worth it, baby. Let it go.”

I take a step back, jerking out of her grasp.

She makes that fucking noise again, the tip of her nose going pink and water lining her lower eyelids.

“Ma,” I say, dropping my voice in an attempt to comfort her. “You have nothing to worry about. Not with me and Dad, not with Stratos, and you definitely don’t have to worry about me burning out. I’ve got everything under control in my life.”

I kiss her on the forehead, something I’ve done since our sizes reversed and I started to tower over her in the seventh grade.

“I promise you,” I add, pulling her into a hug.

She blows out a breath and steps back when I release her.

“I hope you’re right, Storm,” she says ruefully. “Just know that I’ve always got your back. I don’t want to be in the middle of it, but you’re my baby boy. You come first.”

She smiles when she says this, but I know she’s more serious than joking in this moment.

“Um. How does Dad feel about that?” I ask, releasing a pained laugh. She’s already been struggling with cutting the cord when I moved out for college instead of staying at the estate and driving in every day.

She supported the decision, sure, but I know she still cries every time I leave here.

Mom waves her hand in the air as if shooing off the words.

“He can think whatever he wants on the subject,” she says, lifting her nose in the air a fraction before smiling again.

“Be safe and be smart, Storm. Okay?” she says, heading for the door.

“What? You don’t wanna get lost in some art with me?” I call after her once she’s at the exit.

“Now?” She looks out into the night sky. “I do my best work in the light.”

And with that, she exits the studio.

After she leaves, the silence wraps around me. I close my eyes to do the thing the therapist taught me after Rainn died: meditate.

Or, more accurately, I try to, but the hum of the expensive fluorescents, unseen but loud-ass crickets, and the cars traveling outside the Gold Coast bubble become the soundtrack to my world.

I reach for the glass piece I started the last time I was here—this pretentious estate I’ve spent years avoiding.

It’s strange being here again. The last time I stepped foot in this house, it was Christmas. Now we’re creeping up on another one.

The blood-red vase feels strangely symbolic now as I’m holding it in my hands in the aftermath of my father’s betrayal.

Because yes, that’s what it is: a betrayal.

Like the vase, I feel like I’m becoming molten, transforming from one state to another. And yet, I also feel like the finished product.

Stretched, molded, and fragile.

I loathe the idea of being fucking fragile.

I set the vase back down, careful not to drop it, because no matter how fragile it looks, it still holds its shape.

So do I.

The door creaks behind me, and I don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“I thought I’d find you hiding in here, Nephew.”

This fuckhead.

“What do you want?” I grind out. My fingers twitch as I focus on not throwing a vase at his head.

Or slitting his throat with the shards.

“Listen, I come in peace,” he replies, throwing his hands up near his shoulders. “I told him this news would shock you and to tell you in private, but he didn’t think he had the time.”

My eyebrow raises as I smell the bullshit wafting off him alongside his Tom Ford cologne.

“Right,” I bite out. “Because succession planning happens quickly nowadays.”

Lakeland shrugs, and I want to punch him for doing so.

Smug bastard.

“Storm, I gotta hand it to you. You’re an impressive, bright young man, but you’re that—young. Too young. And the stuff your father’s got his hands in…well, you’re not ready for primetime. Sorry, kid.”

With every word, I want to rip his tongue out and shove it down his throat.

But when he adds that bright, fake-ass “Sorry, kid”?

I nearly black out with rage.

“Listen, you lazy fuck. You have done shit-all for Stratos before you came into the picture and most certainly after. I’ve been preparing for this for damn near a decade, and I will not let you take that away from me. It’s never gonna happen, Lakeland.”

A moment passes, and I blink, realizing I’m standing chest-to-chest with my uncle, pushing into his personal space. Instead of intimidating him like it would anyone else, Lakeland just grins.

Fucking grins.

I’m gonna lose my ever-loving mind.

“It looks like you’ve grown some balls, Little Storm Cloud. Congratulations.”

He stands even more still, deadlocked.

“But here’s the thing: Real men know when they’ve lost. I hope you figure that out soon. For all our sakes.”

And with that, he pushes me back a step, and I control the movement and give him space.

Look, Ma. I’m trying not to kill people tonight.

“This isn’t over, Lakeland,” I say, my voice dangerously low.

He follows the same path my mother just took.

“I don’t doubt that for a second.”