The price of power

The door slams hard enough to rattle the glasses on the bar. The laugh that bellows out of me at that shocks even me.

I remain exactly where I'm seated, my hand reaching for my phone. The hotel's security feed fills the screen, showing Quinn striding down the corridor with long, furious steps.

His shoulders are rigid beneath his jacket, and his expression hasn't softened in the slightest since he stormed out.

The elevator doors slide open on the screen, swallowing him from view. My thumb lingers against the edge of the phone before I lock it.

Silence settles over the suite almost immediately afterward, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioner.

A smile tugs faintly at the corner of my mouth.

Cute.

He looked seconds away from turning around and punching me. It's almost disappointing that he didn't.

I would have let him. Any excuse to put my hands on him again would be welcome.

I want to see him lose control. That polished restraint has to crack eventually. Men always reveal themselves when they're angry. I find myself wondering what Quinn hides beneath all that discipline.

I wonder what type he would be. My mind strays. I want something else, something I refuse to dwell on.

A knock sounds at the door.

"Come in."

Riley steps inside without waiting for a second invitation. As always, he looks composed, though the faint crease between his brows suggests he's been dealing with more than one problem this morning.

"The old man requests your presence."

I don't acknowledge the message immediately. Instead, I glance back down at my phone.

"Did you find what I asked?"

Riley sighs quietly, already knowing exactly which request I mean.

"He left the precinct yesterday afternoon."

I say nothing.

"He stopped at St. Mary's Hospital."

My gaze lifts to him. The words Quinn muttered last night drift back into my mind.

Something in his voice sounded different then. Exhausted and broken.

"Why?"

Riley opens the folder tucked beneath his arm. He glances down at the report.

"His mother has end-stage renal disease."

Another page turns.

"Dialysis three times a week and currently waiting for a transplant."

Silence stretches between us. I lean back against the sofa, studying nothing in particular.

Gauging my reaction, I realize the tightening in my chest is guilt. It pisses me off. I've been over this.

Kidneys don't fail because of me. So why does it feel like it's all my fault?

Ridiculous.

Whatever illness has put Quinn's mother in that hospital has nothing to do with my family. Nothing to do with our business.

Then why do I feel otherwise?

The thought irritates me far more than it should.

I reach for the file, skim the neatly typed medical summary for barely a second before closing it again.

"Continue."

Riley doesn't question the abrupt change.

"Shipments from the eastern docks arrived before sunrise."

I nod once. "No issues?”

He moves through the rest of the report efficiently, discussing territory disputes, overdue payments, and one particularly foolish crew leader who mistakes kindness for weakness.

By the time he finishes, Quinn has been pushed completely out of the conversation. Business always comes first.

I stand, straightening the cuff of my shirt. "Let's not keep him waiting.”

The building overlooks the harbor, its glass exterior reflecting the afternoon sun like polished steel.

Expensive enough to make anyone believe power could be bought.

Exactly the sort of place he hides in, pretending he's nothing more than the filth he was born into.

By the time Riley and I are escorted inside, several familiar faces have already gathered around the conference room.

My attention settles on the man seated at the far end.

The bastard looks older. A direct replica of everything I hate, but everything I mirror.

Age has carved deeper lines into his face, silvered more of his hair, but the sharpness in his eyes remains exactly as I remember.

Time has failed to make him any less insufferable.

I take my seat without offering a greeting.

Neither of us seems interested in pretending this meeting is anything more than necessity.

As assistants move around the room preparing documents and coffee, my attention drifts toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street below.

Movement catches my eye.

Police vehicles.

Several officers stand near the entrance across the road.

Then I see him.

Quinn.

Even from this distance, I recognize the way he carries himself.

The navy-blue uniform fits him almost unfairly well, crisp against broad shoulders and a straight back. His expression remains focused as he speaks briefly with another officer before adjusting the radio clipped to his shoulder.

Strange.

It's difficult to reconcile this version of him with the man who staggered drunkenly into my hotel room the night before.

Blue suits him.

The badge shouldn't.

He looks far more natural carrying a service weapon than a whiskey bottle.

I find myself wondering whether he'd still glare at me like that if he realized I was watching him now.

Riley follows my line of sight.

"Protective detail."

"Hm."

"The chief doesn't go anywhere without his favorite officers."

There's amusement buried beneath his words.

My attention never leaves the window.

Across the street, Quinn opens the rear passenger door for someone stepping out of another vehicle before scanning the surroundings with practiced vigilance.

Always alert. Always watching.

Well, unless he's leaning on me. Stumbling into a hotel room, more than willing to take whatever I give him.

My lips twitch.

Turns out my obsession hasn't waned after all.

"Everything is ready," Riley murmurs.

Only then do I pull my gaze away from the street.

The meeting can begin.

But as I settle back into my chair, I speak quietly enough that only Riley can hear.

"Don't let him out of your sight."

He doesn't react.

"Twenty-four hours."

A single nod.

"I want to know where he goes. Who he meets."

His expression remains unreadable.

"Who he really is," I whisper to myself.

Across the street, Quinn climbs into the police vehicle, the engine starting moments later.

I watch until it disappears into the flow of traffic.

Only then do I turn my attention to the men waiting across the table.

There's something about power.

It never stays still. The moment it slips from your grasp, someone else is already reaching for it.

They say blood is thicker than water.

They never mention power.

Power makes strangers into allies...

...and family into rivals.

I look across the table at my father.

Grey eyes meet grey eyes.

There's enough resentment in his expression to poison the room.

I smile properly now.

Power slipped from his hands...

...and I was the one who caught it.

I have no intention of ever giving it back.