Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 124836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 624(@200wpm)___ 499(@250wpm)___ 416(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 624(@200wpm)___ 499(@250wpm)___ 416(@300wpm)
“I should give that information to Dima and Kashmere.”
A wide smile spread across his face. “Exactly. They need to know what Marcelo is up to. Dima would look further into this and Kashmere—”
“Would go ballistic.”
“And all you would do is relax in the East, further strengthening your relationship with Monique, loving and spoiling her. Let the North and West become mistrustful of the South.”
I hated to admit this but my father’s suggestion would be a much easier plan to execute. Even more, it would keep my hands clean and honestly. . .Marcelo’s undoing would be his own fault, not mine.
Secret dealings in Shadow Heights? What were you thinking, Marcelo? Dima would never forgive you for that.
“Of course.” My father raised one finger. “You cannot rush this. You should secretly gather more evidence. Have your people follow them. Perhaps, even send Chen and Duck to talk to the gangs. Regardless, make sure the North and West see Marcelo as a possible threat themselves.”
I leaned back in my seat. “I can do that.”
“Excellent.” He breathed out a sigh of relief. “Trust in the plan. Marcelo will get what’s coming to him and Monique will be none the wiser. I want my daughter to be happy here.”
I blinked. “Your daughter?”
“You do plan to marry her? Right?”
“Yes, but. . .”
“Then, she is my daughter.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “Allow me to enjoy that fact while I have. . .limited time on this Earth.”
I didn’t share the laugh with him. “She doesn’t want me to kill you.”
“Of course not. She’s a good person. The East doesn’t deserve her, but. . .you will kill me.” He studied my face, “can you do it?”
“I think I can.”
“Don’t think, my son, know it.” He touched his head. “Feel the certainty of that fact deep inside of your mind.”
This was my father—a man who put tradition over life, death over love.
To my surprise, my father pointed behind us to the huge picture of my mother and Moni’s mother, framed in gold. “Whose idea was that?”
“Mine.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Aww.” His usually stoic expression faltered and for a moment, I thought I saw his eyes water. It was a side of him rarely shown; a vulnerability he kept hidden beneath layers of ruthlessness.
He cleared his throat. “I am proud of the man you have become, Lei.”
Shock hit me.
Those words hung in the air, laden with a significance that would have once meant everything to me. There was a time when my father’s approval was all I sought. His praise could lift up my day, his disappointment could ruin an entire year.
But now, those words didn’t hold the power they once did.
No longer was he a god in my eyes—a figure of untouchable strength and wisdom.
Now, he was simply a man and a broken one at that.
A suffering widower.
A regretful father.
A heartless murder.
I looked at him, really looked at him and saw the cracks in his armor. And it didn’t make me hate or love him. It just made me sad.
Still, I swallowed down the sorrow and whispered, “Thank you, father.”
He faced the reporters and smiled.
I did the same.
Cameras flashed.
The image would be legendary—the Mountain Master and Grand Mountain Master’s last tea together. Doting father and loving son. Generations of kids in the East would see this picture in their history books and have to fill out a question on the date of the ceremony. Some would even need to write an essay.
But no one would know of the underlying deception and dark undertones of this moment.
More cameras flashed and silence stretched between us like a rubber band ready to snap.
He really won’t be here anymore. How will I get used to that?
Turning back to my father, I used this moment of quiet to study him. His long hair was more gray than black. There were new wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Once fine lines were now deepened trenches, suggesting days of heavy thoughts and burdens.
Memories of my childhood with him flooded my mind.
Unbidden and bittersweet.
I remembered the days he taught me how to fight. His voice, stern yet encouraging, echoed in my ears as he demonstrated stances and strikes. He had been relentless, pushing me to my limits, but always with a purpose—to make me stronger, to prepare me for protecting the East.
Then, there were the calmer memories like the day he taught me how to ride a bike. I could still feel the wobble of the handlebars and the uncertainty in my grip as I pedaled for the first time without training wheels.
His hands had been there, steadying me. “Keep going, Lei. You’ve got this.”
When I finally managed to ride on my own, the pride in his eyes had been unmistakable.
My heart warmed.
Other moments flashed by—him showing me how to tie a fishing line, teaching me to swim at the beach, the evenings by the fireplace with only him and I as he read the East’s history to me.