Page 3 of Riot’s Thorn (Sons of Erebus: Reno, NV #4)
CHAPTER ONE
PARKER
D read fills me as I pull up to the estate. It’s so ostentatious it makes my lip curl in disgust. While I know Dad grew up here, I still can’t believe he chose to move back after Grandpa died a few months back.
Despite our family’s wealth, Dad never flaunted it before now.
After Mom died, he raised me in a modest home in a good neighborhood.
I had to do chores to earn an allowance, and when I turned sixteen, he made me get a job so I’d learn the value of hard work.
The only thing he ever splurged on was his Aston Martin.
Dad justified the move by saying Grandpa’s investment company has always been run from here, and now that he’s the CEO, it makes sense for him to live here.
In my head, this will always be the place my obnoxious grandparents lived.
I never imagined it’d also be the place I’d come home to on the weekends or during breaks from college.
As I park, a man in a suit walks up to my car and opens the door for me. “Ma’am.”
“Sir,” I retort, saluting him. It’s hard to take this level of grandiosity seriously. I’m no one important, just an average twenty-one-year-old college student.
His lip quirks, and I grin, feeling the same accomplishment I felt as a little girl when this game of trying to get reactions from the emotionless staff began.
Dad and I were required to attend weekly dinners here with my grandparents while I was growing up, which turned into dinners with Grandpa after Grandma died.
I had to occupy myself somehow. Everyone here is so serious for no reason.
“Your father is waiting for you in the study,” he says, lowering himself into the driver’s seat.
Heaven forbid the house’s curb appeal be ruined by my older model sedan, so it’ll be parked in a lot out back until I’m ready to leave.
He makes a strangled sound as his knees are forced to his chest, and I bite my lip at how long it takes for the seat to slide back to accommodate his large body.
I’m five-foot-seven, but imagine if I were shorter. Hilarious.
I’m still giggling as I take the steps up to the front door, where another man stands in wait.
My laughter fades instantly as I take him in.
Unlike the usual staff, who exude a balance of professionalism and warmth, this man is different.
He doesn’t glance in my direction as I approach, yet he is aware of my arrival, holding the door open with a practiced motion.
His attire sets him apart as well. Rather than the typical, understated black suits worn by everyone else, he’s wearing something poorly tailored, the fabric cheap-looking and the fit awkward, hanging loosely in some places and pinching in others.
Maybe Dad doesn’t have the same exacting standards Grandpa did?
Although his eyes remain fixed ahead, I can’t shake the feeling he’s tracking my every movement.
I catch a slight twitch in his jaw beneath his close-cropped beard, and his free hand curls into a fist. Shivers race down my spine, and each second feels like an eternity as I approach him.
His vibe chills my blood and tells me there’s something not right about his presence.
Yet, there’s an inexplicable pull, a part of me drawn to him, even though he terrifies me.
I walk through the door he’s holding open and pretend not to notice him, matching his attitude. Goosebumps prickle down my arms as a whiff of cigarette smoke and something woodsy filters through my nose. He better not be smoking on the property, or Dad will have his head.
Once in the foyer, I can’t help but look over my shoulder. All I see is the large glass door closing. He disappeared that fast. Was he even real? I’ve always had an active imagination, thanks to my healthy obsession with books, but I’ve never seen things that aren’t there.
Shaking off the strange encounter, I find Dad in the study, looking comfortable on a dark leather sofa, his ankle resting on his knee as he scrolls through something on his iPad.
He doesn’t notice my entrance until I plop dramatically down next to him.
Setting the tablet down, he wraps an arm around me and draws me into his side.
“There she is. How are you, my love?”
“Hungry, so I hope dinner is ready,” I say, absorbing the comfort only a parent can give you.
“I had a feeling you would be, so I told the chef we’d be dining early tonight.”
“Chef,” I huff, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose where they always want to settle. “You’ve settled into the life of a CEO nicely.”
“You forget this is how I grew up. The only reason you didn’t was because I promised your mom you’d have a normal childhood.”
The pang of losing a mother I hardly remember hits my heart. I was four when breast cancer took her from us. Dad has never remarried and, as far as I know, hasn’t even been on a date. She was the love of his life.
“I want a normal adulthood too.”
“I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that your grandfather’s legacy will die when I do, but what do I care? I’ll be dead,” he says as he stands, his cheery tone not matching his morose statement.
“That better not be for a long, long time.” My scolding tone only has him grinning.
“Don’t worry, my love. I’m as healthy as a man my age can be.” He holds a hand out to me, and I allow him to pull me to my feet. “Now, let’s go have dinner.”
Our steps falter when his assistant approaches with a stone-cold, serious expression. “Sir, may I have a moment?”
Dad looks at me hesitantly, and I wave him off. “Go solve whatever pressing investment emergency can’t wait until after dinner. I’ll meet you in the dining room.”
“Thanks. I won’t be long.”
The pair head toward Dad’s office, talking in hushed tones while I follow my nose to the kitchen. I inhale the rich, mouth-watering scent of turmeric, cumin, garlic, and onion and know that curry is on the menu.
“Ah, there she is,” a deep voice bellows, and I meet the dark brown eyes of our chef, Wilson.
He’s been employed by the family for as long as I can remember, and he thankfully stayed on when Dad moved in.
I was a young girl when I first invaded his kitchen, asking him a million questions he patiently answered.
That continued through the years because dinners with my grandparents were boring, and bothering Wilson was always entertaining.
“Hey, Willy.” I smirk, knowing he hates it when I call him that.
“Not smart to mess with the man who’s making your food.”
I lift myself up onto the kitchen counter and snag a carrot from the cutting board. “You love me too much to poison me.”
“That might be true, but I’m just petty enough to load your plate with peas.” He points a knife at me, and I gasp dramatically. He and I have had a “no peas for dinner” agreement for many years, since it’s my least favorite vegetable.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Glancing around, I notice trays upon trays of hors d’oeuvres he’s preparing along with the curry. “What’s all this for?”
Wilson’s spine goes rigid, and his easy smile flattens. “Your father is having a party tonight.”
“Oh?” I say, not understanding why Dad’s parties put him in a sour mood.
Come to think of it, he was always grouchy while preparing for Grandpa’s parties, too.
Maybe it’s because of all the extra work.
That doesn’t feel right, though; Wilson loves to cook.
Even when he’s home, he’s trying new recipes.
“They’re probably super boring, huh? All those rich, pompous assholes in one room. ”
“First of all, don’t curse. It’s not ladylike,” he scolds, and I roll my eyes. “Second?—”
His words are cut off by what sounds like a stampede barreling through the house, gaining our attention. I jump off the counter, following Wilson to see what’s going on. At least ten guards are running toward the back of the house, guns in hand.
“What the hell?” Wilson’s tone portrays the same confusion I’m feeling. He places a hand on my shoulder as we stand there, waiting for what, I don’t know. An unsettling feeling takes up space in my gut. “Maybe we should go back to the kitchen.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
Before we can turn around, I hear a faint whistle and a small pop .
I suck in a startled breath when wetness sprays over my face and neck.
What was that? On instinct, I reach up to wipe the liquid off, but before I can, Wilson collapses.
I grab him around the waist to hold him up, but he’s heavy, and I struggle to slowly lower us both to the ground.
Chaos erupts in an instant, and my mind reels as it struggles to catch up with reality.
I glance down to find the horrific sight of a cavernous wound in Wilson’s forehead.
A violent shiver courses through my body as my brain fights to accept the brutal truth.
Dead . The word suddenly appears in my thoughts, and even though it seems utterly impossible, I know it’s the truth.
“Help!” I shout, not thinking clearly enough to realize the last thing I want to do is gain attention. There’s a shooter here, and that bullet could’ve just as easily been meant for me.
“Parker. Oh, thank god.” Dad runs toward me, his head on a swivel. He takes in the gruesome scene and swallows hard. “Shit. Fuck.”
My voice shakes, and I stutter out, “I-I think he might be d-dead.”
“Yes, my love, I think you’re right. Let me help you. We need to get out of here.” He pushes Wilson to the side to free me, but doing so exposes the blown-open back of our chef’s head. Chunks of brain matter hang from the wound, making my mouth water and my stomach turn.
I fall to my hands and knees, retching. Dad rubs my back soothingly, but there’s an urgency to his hushed voice. “This is bad. This is so very bad. I need you to be strong and come with me. We need to hide until the cops can get here.”