“If it helps,” I say slowly, waiting for him to look up. “After this last job with Mercier, I’m getting out of the business, too.”
My dad’s eyes flare with surprise. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of it,” I say honestly. “I want a different type of life.”
I’d expected that to hurt him, because he raised me to be like him. I willingly followed in his footsteps, and I wouldn’t trade my experiences for anything. But I have always suspected he wants me to love this life the way he does, and I don’t anymore.
Instead, I see a tiny spark of light deep within his gaze. The corners of his mouth tip upward. “Now that is good news to hear.”
It’s my turn to be shocked. “What?”
“Sin, it was never my greatest hope you’d lead the same type of life I did,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t hate it when you did, because it kept us close… but I always knew you had so much more in you. You’re still young, with your whole life in front of you. You should go out and do remarkable things that don’t involve this type of risk.”
“I don’t even believe what I’m hearing,” I say with mock offense, but he knows I’m teasing. “Who are you and what have you done with my father?”
My dad laughs, squeezing my hand hard before releasing it. He pops up from the table, then grabs his cold cup of tea. “Want a cup?” he asks.
“Sure,” I reply and lean back in my chair, trying to process what he’d said.
In the kitchen, my dad lights the stove for the kettle. “Maybe you’ll think about settling down. You and Saint would make some beautiful grandbabies for me.”
“Dad,” I exclaim, stunned he’d even go there. I sit up straight in my chair. “Saint and I aren’t—”
“You love him, he loves you… why are you even acting like this is a huge shock for me to make that leap?”
“He doesn’t love me,” I mutter, slouching down again.
“Bollocks,” he replies, moving around the short counter to the table. He takes his seat while we wait on the water to boil, looking me dead in the eye. “Mark my words… you two are going to have a long and happy life together.”
“I kind of doubt we are,” I say.
“But he forgave you,” my dad points out.
“I know.” Uttering a sigh, I smile pensively. “But sometimes, that’s not enough.”
“Where did my daughter go?” he asks, cocking his head at an angle to study me thoughtfully.
“Right here,” I reply, my eyebrows knitting in confusion.
“No… the daughter who always goes after what she wants and doesn’t sit around with a woe-is-me, attitude waiting to see what happens.”
I blink, surprised he’d call me out like that. And then I realize I have been sounding a bit mopey about the whole thing.
“Actually,” I say, brightening a bit. “I did tell Saint how I felt. I mean, sort of. I told him if he asked me to go somewhere with him after this Mercier job, I would go.”
“That’s good,” he praises with a tiny slap of his hand on the table. The kettle starts whistling, but I jump up and beat him to it.
I head into the kitchen as my dad asks, “What did Saint say to that?”
“Nothing really,” I answer with a shrug. “He’s worried about this last job—can’t see past it.”
“And you of all people should understand how important it is to put all of your energy and brainpower into a job,” he chastises.
“I know,” I reply, preparing our tea and grabbing a can of biscuits—cookies, according to Saint—I’d bought. I lay the items out on a tray before carrying it to the table. “And this Mercier job—whatever it might be—is supposed to be huge. Like nothing we’ve ever worked before.”
“I have faith in you two,” he replies firmly, reaching for his cup.
“Actually,” I say with a sly smile. “Maybe we can run some stuff by you, bounce some ideas off you once we find out what the job is.”
My dad’s face lights up with pure joy. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” I say with a laugh as I take my seat. “You can be a strategy consultant.”
I open the biscuits, then hand a few over to my dad. I’ve always loved talking to him, knowing he’d never judge me. He’s been the best sounding board I could ever hope for.
“Let me ask you a hypothetical question,” I drawl, tapping my biscuit on the edge of my teacup. “If I had the ability to move to anywhere in the world and start over, would you want to come with me and where would you want to go?”
My dad ponders a moment, nibbling on his biscuit. “I can’t think of anywhere in particular. I mean… London is my home. I’d want to be close by if you had kids, of course, so I suppose if you moved somewhere and you didn’t mind me coming along, I’d go wherever you went. Why do you ask?”
I shrug, hating I’m even considering Saint’s offer to help me disappear. To move my dad and me safely out of Mercier’s reach.
“Sindaria,” my dad says. I can tell I’ve worried him by his scrunched brow. “Why did you ask that? And don’t think about lying to me.”
I’m at a crossroads. I’ve withheld information from my dad so he wouldn’t worry about me, which I felt was protecting him. But I’ve had about as honest and transparent of a conversation with him where I had to crush his dreams of returning to his life as a thief, and he took it way better than I expected.
Maybe I need to quit thinking I have to protect him. Instead, he’d drawn on his strength I’d thought he’d lost. Despite his stroke and failing capabilities, he’s still my strong-shouldered father.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to let Dad in on the secret I’d been harboring. “You’re going to be angry with me when I tell you this,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Of course, I won’t,” he scoffs.
Okay. Whatever. “When you had your stroke and it messed up that job with Mercier, he told me that I had to work jobs for him until your debt was paid off. I’ve been doing that—”
My dad explodes, shooting out of his chair. His voice booms, sounding like thunder. “Jesus Christ, what the bloody hell have you agreed to do for that arsehole?”
“You said you wouldn’t get mad,” I accuse, pointing at the chair. “Now sit before you give yourself a heart attack, and I’ll explain.”
Reluctantly, because my dad is a stubborn man, he plops his frame back in the chair and glares at me. I ignore that, because I’ve decided to come clean in case something bad happens in this last job with Mercier.
“He threatened to kill you if I didn’t—”
My dad starts cursing again. This time, he jumps out of the chair and paces the length of the small apartment, threatening to fly to Paris right this moment and cut off Mercier’s balls with a butter knife. I wait it out, sipping at my tea and nibbling a biscuit until he calms down.
Finally, he returns to his chair and sits with a huff.
“Are you done?” I ask sarcastically, fighting off a smile.