I looked down my nose at Samson. “Are you going to leave, or do you need a hand?”
One moment, he was standing proud, spine rigid, chin up. The next, defeat snapped something inside him, and he collapsed to a broken old man in an expensive suit.
“I just wanted to see my daughter,” he murmured. “I’ll go.”
He started for the door, and I turned back to Catherine, taking her hand in mine. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”
She wasn’t crying, and her trembling had ebbed. “That was my dad.”
“I know.”
“I—I think he really believed I wanted him here tonight. He came to see me.”
“It sounds like Gavin had given him that impression.”
“I know I should hate him, but I don’t think I do. And…maybe I want to hear if he’s sorry.” Her lashes fluttered, and she sucked in a breath. “Will you come with me to talk to him?”
“Of course I will.”
I would never deny her anything, though it killed me to grant her this. Her father was the source of so much pain. He’d abandoned her. Had made her feel unwanted and unloved. He didn’t deserve a conversation with her. But if she needed to do this, I would damn well be by her side for all of it.
Hand in hand, we went together. And because Weston and Luca always had my back, they followed along with Elise and Saoirse.
And Miles.
Fucking Miles. Continuously coming to Catherine’s aid. I’d have to stop being annoyed by him soon.
Our group pushed out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk out front, and the scene we walked into was nothing short of chaos.
Donald Rockford was pacing the sidewalk, disheveled and sweaty. He had a poster board hanging from his neck and, more disturbingly, was waving a gun in the air.
“This is my building, mine. He stole it. Tell him to come out here and face me like a man.”
My security guards were beginning to surround him, cautiously inching closer. One tried to coax some sense into him.
“Sir, I’m going to ask you to put the gun down. The police are on their way, sir. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Donald burst into frenzied laughter. “You might not want anyone hurt, but I damn well do. That idiot Levy doesn’t deserve my building. He stole it right out from under me. Not gonna get away with it. Not on my watch.”
Gavin was nowhere in sight, but Samson had frozen next to the door, so we were almost shoulder to shoulder.
“Elliot Levy,” Donald sang into the night sky. “Come out here, big man!”
The sign on Donald’s chest said, “Elliot Levy is a crook. He steals from old people. Lock him up!” The letters were surprisingly neat and orderly compared to how unhinged he was behaving.
Catherine clutched my taut arm, her nails digging in. If she weren’t with me, I wouldn’t have been afraid. Donald could barely stand up straight, let alone aim a gun. But one wild shot could hit her, and she could be taken from me. Her life wasn’t something I’d ever take a chance on.
Behind me, Elise sucked in a sharp breath, and I was given another reminder of how high the stakes were.
Donald spun around to face the building and caught sight of us watching him. His manic eyes bounced from person to person, pausing on Catherine with faint recognition.
When he landed on me, he brought the gun in front of him, shaking like he was in an earthquake. His finger wasn’t on the trigger…yet.
“What is that, a Peacemaker from the wild, Wild West?” Miles sauntered around Catherine and me, his hands on his hips. “What year was that gun made, 1892? Have you held up any stagecoaches lately?”
Donald’s arm went lax, falling to his side, and his face pinched with confusion. “What are you talking about, boy?”
“Miles, no!” Weston hissed. “Get back here.”
Miles ignored his brother, scratching the back of his head with his middle finger. “Did you know Billy the Kid?” He snapped his fingers like he’d just thought of something. “Say, did he give you that heater? No, wait, that’s from The Outsiders. What do cowboys call their revolvers? Pops?”
The security guards drew closer as Donald stared at Miles like he was an alien speaking another language.
“Who’s a cowboy?” Donald demanded weakly. “Why do you keep asking me these questions?”
“I don’t know, Don. You seem interesting to me. I’ve always been curious about what life in the 1800s was like, and you look like just the guy to tell me. Did you ride the Oregon Trail? I heard dysentery was the worst, and forget it if your wagon broke an axle.” He slid his hand across his throat like a knife. “That’s the end for you, right? Can’t really go on without an axle.”