01

DANIEL

Perpetual tasks await, alongside an unyielding drive to pursue them. Irrespective of the path I choose, there lies an objective to achieve and a circumstance to overcome.

Nevertheless, ambition cannot be devoid of insight, or else it transforms into a force of detriment.

I am currently grappling with that boundary. The desire for more and the apprehension of less. The reality persists, ambition propels me forward, yet I find myself at the precipice, gazing into an obscure, mist-covered abyss.

This isn't my initial encounter with such a void; it has stared back before. Whenever I encounter a junction, I recollect how I arrived at this juncture.

However, this isn't the right moment for such images or reflections. After all, this occasion should exude joy. The operative word being "should."

Making my way to my friend's residence to celebrate his daughter's eighteenth birthday is the final thing I wished to do. My desk is burdened with numerous case files, and a crucial planning meeting awaits at the company.

Yet, if I were to confess to my best friend that I prioritize the company over attending his daughter's birthday gathering, he'd react strongly. Even though he's also associated with the company, that status holds no significance on her special day.

Fifteen minutes. I remind myself as I exit my vehicle and fasten my jacket. I will remain for only that duration and then craft a pretext to depart.

My friend acquired his estate from his father after he ousted his "malevolent" stepmother using various lawful claims. I've never witnessed the allure of this antiquated estate. Indeed, it's extensive and features a pair of swimming pools, yet he invested a substantial amount to refurbish it and restore it to its present form.

The residence is ivory-hued, featuring a neat and refined veranda adorned with vibrant, uncommon flora, extending into the spacious garden where the birthday celebration is taking place.

There is a long table near the pool that is surrounded by countless people. Some of them are partners and associates from our firm. They are all over the occasion, not missing a chance to kiss Krew’s ass.

The man himself, the rogue bastard — whom I often bloodied my knuckles fighting when we were in high school — steps out of the house, wheeling a huge pink cake that is almost taller than he is, and when he starts singing Happy Birthday, everyone else joins in.

I stop near the house’s entrance, waiting for the whole charade to end. Yes, I came to the fucking birthday, but that does not mean I’ll enjoy the happy-go-lucky crowd.

Neither are birthdays. Not when mine was supposed to be a funeral.

Genevieve, the sole daughter of Krew, beams broadly, her lips curving into a radiant smile, while a shimmer of tears pools in her eyelids. She swiftly brushes them aside using the back of her hands, determined not to let her emotions spill over.

Her smile carries a gentle warmth, a stark departure from her father's demeanor — indeed, their resemblances are faint at best.

Unlike her father, who sports a mane of dark hair, Genevieve's tresses cascade in an auburn cascade, adorned with subtle streaks of lighter hues. While Krew's eyes hold a steady blue-gray hue, Genevieve's gaze holds a captivating peculiarity: a rare case of heterochromia, where the inner depths sparkle with a lush green hue, while the outer regions present an intricate blend of blues and grays.

Now that she’s all grown up, she looks more like she’s his sister, not his daughter. But then again, he’s barely aged with all the physical activities he takes part in.

The song comes to an end as King reaches her, and they both blow out the eighteen candles among cheers and random shouts of “Happy birthday” from the crowd before he pulls his daughter in for a hug.

If someone had told me the ruthless King who used to street fight like a champ would grow up into a mushy father, I would’ve gone the blasphemy route.

But the evidence is right in front of me. He’s wrapped around that girl’s finger and the worst part is he’s well aware of it.

It could be because he had her when we were in our final year of high school and was clueless as fuck about the meaning of having a child— he still is sometimes. Or because he always called her his second chance at life.

I remain near a tree and check my emails, replying to the urgent ones.

It takes more than ten minutes—five minutes away from my self-imposed deadline—and I have not even shown my face yet. After Genevieve finally goes to accept birthday wishes and King disappears into the house, probably to get more drinks, I make my way toward him.

Going unnoticed is hard as fuck when most of the people present either work for me or used to work with me, but the cake—and the birthday girl herself—have them preoccupied. I am safe. For now.

I find King in his kitchen, rummaging for beer bottles in the fridge and giving distinct, methodical orders to the catering staff. Now, that is the King I know. Clear-cut and precise. Which is one of the reasons I got along with him in the first place.

After all, devils recognize each other.

Or maybe he’s an ex-devil now, considering all the mushy shit he does whenever his daughter is involved.

I lean against the counter and cross my legs at the ankles. “You are only short a maid’s outfit to complete the role.”

King turns around holding two cases of beer and his expression immediately sharpens. Gone is the soft man who was singing Happy Birthday not too long ago.

He straightens to his full height, but no matter how much he tries to get more on me, his six-foot-two is still an inch shorter than me. But he’s more buff.

Aside from boxing with him for old times’ sake and doing some hiking, I am not as obsessed as he is with sports.

“You can go.” He hands the beer to one of the staff and they all scurry out of the kitchen at his order.

After slamming the fridge shut, he retrieves a Zippo from his pocket and flicks it open, then closed. He quit smoking a long time ago, soon after Genevieve’s birth, but he’s never lost the need to have that lighter. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I am here, aren’t I?”

“Nice save, because I was planning to kick your ass.”

“You can not win against me. Not in this lifetime, at least.”

“Last week’s match says otherwise.”

“In last week’s match, you cheated by throwing the towel in my face.”

“It is called street fighting, not noble martial arts. I’ll let you win this week.”

“Fuck you. Do not act benevolent when you are going down.”

“We’ll see about that. Now, why are you late?”

“It is just a birthday, King. I do not see what the big deal is.”

“My daughter’s birthday. That is the big deal, Dan.”

I resist the urge to tell him it is still just a birthday since those words will definitely get me punched. My face is kind of real estate now and can not be bruised in any way. King’s, too. Which is why the face is a red zone in our fights.

King flicks his lighter shut, slips it back in his pocket, and reaches into the cabinet. He retrieves a bottle of The Balvenie 21 Year Old PortWood Finish and pours two glasses, then slides one across the counter to me.

“Drinking this early?” I swirl the contents.

“It is a special occasion.”

I take a sip to hide whatever grimace my mouth was about to make. “Because it is her birthday or because it reminds you of her mother?”

“Her mother can go fuck herself. That woman does not exist.” He downs the whole glass.

“Clearly. Judging by the million PIs you’ve hired over the last eighteen years.”

“There is no harm in knowing one’s enemies’ whereabouts.”

“You want me to believe that you will not do anything once you find her? Really, King?”

The corner of his lips curve in a smirk as he pours himself another drink. “I never said that.”

“Keep me and the firm out of this mess.”

“The firm, maybe. But you, my friend, will definitely go down with me.”

He steps to my side and leans against the counter. We drink in silence, which was our ritual after we fought in high school. Back then, we were bloody, bruised, and barely breathing, but we sat on the school’s rooftop that overlooked New York City and shared a beer. It was also around that time when we vowed to conquer this city.

Almost two decades later, we have branches all over the States and in London and France.

And it still does not feel like enough.

Nothing does.

“She’s growing up so fast.” King sighs, watching Genevieve help the catering staff. “I want her to go back into being my little angel.”

“Kids aren’t constant.”

“Do not I fucking know it. The other day, she was having a virginity talk with her friend.”

“Why the fuck are you talking about your daughter’s virginity to me? Or at all?”

He waves me off and continues, “I should’ve known this was coming, but I still had dark thoughts about all the ways someone could take her away. Then I started to seriously consider the option of becoming a killer to protect her.”

“Just so we’re clear, I will not be your attorney.”

“Fuck you, Dan.”

“For abandoning you when you do something stupid?”

“For being a jealous motherfucker because I always win, not only in the street fights and with my higher grades, but I also had a child before you.”

“First of all, you did not win all the fights and the ones you did were always by some dirty play. Second of all, grades are subjective. I still win more cases than you do and my methods are smart and efficient, unlike your hard, ruthless ways that are more trouble than necessary. As for children, no thanks. I practically raised my nephew and he’s enough children for a lifetime.” I check my watch. Twenty minutes since I arrived. Five minutes more than I would planned to stay. I place my glass on the counter. “I am out.”

“Where to?”

“A meeting with a client.”

“On a weekend?”

“No rest for the wicked.” I turn and start to leave, but his voice stops me.

“Wait.”

“What?” I glance at him over my shoulder.

“You did not wish Ginny a happy birthday.”

“Do it on my behalf. I’ll leave you the gift.”

“Fuck no. You will go over there and do it yourself. I do not want to see the disappointment on my angel’s face when she learns that her uncle Dan completely ignored her on her special day.”

Five minutes. I will not stay any longer than that.