Page 39

Chapter 39

Constantine

After switching to what Juliette had jokingly called “stealth mode” to sneak our bags from the foyer and grab clean underwear, we returned to the living room to face everyone.

Dad cut right to it in the no-nonsense manner I expected. “I was upset. I said things I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

His words in English were meant for Juliette, and his more impassioned ones that followed in Italian? Those were for me.

I took them, absorbed them, and then, I forgave him.

Dad gave a slight nod before shifting his focus to Juliette. “Salvatore,” he offered, his tone gruff but sincere. “Call me Sal.”

“Oh, um, okay.”

I knew Juliette well enough to know she wouldn’t be casually “Sal’ing” my father anytime soon.

Izzy and Colin joined my mother on the L-shaped sofa in the center of the wide-open space. Ever the one to read the room, Izzy smoothly redirected the conversation. “So, what about your family? Do they know yet?”

I wasn’t sure if the subject change was a blessing or a disaster waiting to unfold.

Juliette hesitated, then picked up a photo album from the coffee table Mom had strategically set out. “I’ve only told my brother so far since he tried to help me find Constantine years ago.”

“Her brother is a veteran,” I told my dad, keeping my tone even. “He, uh, currently works with Carter Dominick at The Sapphire Hotel.”

Dad’s shocked stare slammed into me with a heavy dose of what-the-fuck, and a shudder rolled down my spine as I coughed into a closed fist.

“The one Renaud co-owns as well?” Mom beat Dad to the punch, instantly making The League connection.

“Yup,” I confirmed. “That’d be the one.” I shared a few words in Italian to reassure my parents that Juliette already knew about my past, and hopefully, that’d slow their racing hearts and calm the storms in their minds.

“And Juliette is still here after knowing all that?” Dad asked, his shock not going anywhere despite my best efforts.

And, of course, now he chose to switch to English. Thanks for that.

Juliette raised her hand like a student, offering a shy smile. “That she is.”

This woman kept blowing me away at every turn, and it wouldn’t take my parents long to understand why my connection and attraction to her ran much deeper than the physical.

“His eyes doth see what his mind doesn’t accept,” my mother spoke up, possibly paraphrasing Shakespeare or making up her own version.

“Anything else I should know that might rock the ground beneath my feet?” My father swiped a hand along his black-and-silver-trimmed beard, studying me like a man wondering how I’d survived my own fair share of earthquake revelations.

I rounded the sofa, drawing closer to where my father stood. The tremor of shock still ran through me and sparked a memory, one I should have connected sooner. “There is something.” I pinched the bridge of my nose.

How had I not thought of this before? Then again, I’d been in survival mode all weekend. I could probably cut myself some slack.

“What is it?” Juliette’s voice pulled my head upright, my hand falling to my side.

I met my father’s gaze before dropping what I hoped would be the final bomb of the night. “Juliette’s father owns the brand Legacy Ridge Bourbon.”

“You’re a Carmichael?” my father asked her, unable to shake the astonishment from his tone.

My mother was probably clueless about why he was familiar with her last name.

“Yes. Do you enjoy bourbon as much as Constantine?” Juliette asked, not catching on to my father’s confusion. And there was no way she would unless her father had been honest with her— what was it? —twelve or thirteen years ago.

“I do,” he answered her, eyes shooting to me.

Of course he had questions. Who wouldn’t? If I were in his shoes, I’d have quite a few.

I adjusted my hat, swirling it around face forward to better shield my eyes from my father’s sudden scrutiny. “No, I had no clue her family owned the brand back then. No clue she was a Carmichael. Juliette recommended the drink to me in Aruba, and because of her, I became obsessed with it.” I laid out the truth as quickly as possible.

“You’re obsessed with Grandpa’s bourbon?” At Colin’s question, I redirected my attention to his narrowed, curious eyes.

I took a deep breath to power through, doing something I never did—openly talk about myself in front of others. “Yes, I drank it because of your mom, never knowing your last name was staring me in the face on the bottle.”

From my peripheral view, I noticed Hudson urging Izzy to leave the room with him.

Mom set aside the photo album and stood, gently reaching for Colin’s arm to rise, which he did.

“You’re wrong.” Colin pulled his hand free from my mother’s hold to fidget with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “Carmichael’s not my last name.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “Well, it won’t be for much longer.”

My mom closed her eyes, and I knew she was fighting tears, while my father rested his hand over his heart as if the pressure in his chest was getting to him. Welcome to how I’ve felt all weekend.

Mom opened her eyes and looked directly at Colin. “Let’s get you a snack while they talk?” She picked up the photo album and held it out toward the kitchen.

“Colin,” I called after him as he started to follow her out. “I’d like that.” Juliette and I had already spoken about this, but hearing the words from his mouth made it that much more real.

He smiled, then disappeared from the room with my mother.

“There’s more to this story, isn’t there?” Juliette stood and brought her fingers beneath her eyes, catching her tears.

I tipped my head to my father, offering him the floor to speak.

“An old friend of mine is a major alcohol distributor.” My father slipped his hands into his pockets, focusing on her. “It was maybe twelve years ago he told me he heard from a reliable source that Legacy Ridge was in trouble. He knew it was Constantine’s favorite, so he told me to stock up because they'd be going out of business unless the company had a large infusion of cash.”

“No, that’s not true. My father would have told me,” she said in disbelief.

“I’m sure your father didn’t want to stress you out, but I assure you, that was the case.” He smiled, adding, “Hard to believe, I know, but I’m a sentimental old man. And I knew my son here would hate to see that brand off the shelves.” He stole a look at me. “Not that I knew the real reason why.”

Flustered, Juliette dropped back on the couch. “What happened?”

“I had no interest in running a bourbon business, so I didn’t offer to buy him out or to become an investor,” he went on.

“He called asking what I wanted him to do. I was on a job in South America for the CIA.” Handling an issue with a cartel that left a lot of blood on my hands, in the very literal sense. I’d keep that thought to myself. “I told my father to give Carmichael whatever he needed and then some to stay afloat. And to do it as an anonymous donor.”

Other details I didn’t plan to share: I’d ended the call and taken a shower, watching the blood go down the drain, feeling as dead on the inside as the lives I’d taken, even if they were all men who deserved to die.

She leaned forward, holding the sides of her temples while murmuring, “We’ve been like two ships passing in the night all this time. It’s almost becoming cruel at this point.”

“You two were meant to find your way to one another, but it wasn’t your time before,” my father said as if the ground was finally steady beneath his feet and understanding had taken over.

He met my eyes, then angled his head for the hall, letting me know he’d give us a moment to talk.

I sat on the couch next to her and held her hand.

“Whoever wrote our story . . . I’d really like to have a word with them,” she cry-laughed while sniffling.

I brought our clasped palms to my lips and kissed her knuckles. “Well, Bianca was a writer.”

Her teary eyes met mine as she whispered, “Then let’s put in a request. Can she write us a happy ending?”