Call it a sixth sense, or whatever the fuck you want, but I knew tonight was going to be one of those nights.

Earlier today, my father had demanded I report to the family home, or face all the things he warned me about at dinner. Demotion. Kicked off Team Six. My trust fund emptied.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

I didn't care. I had a house. I had Camilla. And that was all I needed. I'd even told West he could come to Virginia and stay with us until school started—but he was hellbent on doing this play, so whatever.

Then Easton and Nora had crawled up my ass when I wouldn't come home, and so did Ma. I shrugged them off, even though I felt guilty. But, somewhere deep down, I knew my dad wouldn't let me get away with disobeying him.

I knew he'd come for me. Whatever he wanted, he'd make it known.

When I reached the front gates, six security guards were standing in front of a barricade. My father's car pulled right up.

I set one hand on the silver Mercedes my father was driving, and put the other in my pocket. Chewing on the stick of the lollipop.

"Get in the car, Southron," my dad barked. His eyes were narrowed, and his face was splotchy and red. "We're going for a drive."

Growing up, I'd been trained to obey his every command. Be here. Say this. Dress this way. Be tough. Be tougher.

Words have power. The second they escaped from your mouth, they took on a life of their own. I cast a look back towards the fountain. Camilla was watching me with a hand over her heart, standing out on the lawn.

Damn. It hurt knowing I'd done that. I'd made her feel like that.

I hadn't been planning on telling her I loved her tonight, but the second I let it slip, it all became real.

She loved me too. It wasn't just hearing her say it. I could feel it. And to be honest, I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt loved.

My dad didn't love anyone. Not me, not West. No one but himself.

I turned back to my dad, feeling untethered from my need to obey him. I wasn't sure if I deserved Camilla's love, but she was right. I didn't need to take his shit.

"You need to leave, or they're going to call the cops. That's all I came to say."

My hand slid off the car, and I backed up a pace. His voice came like a whip.

"Get in this car right now, Southron Jae Tenney, or so help me, I'll make you—and that woman of yours—regret it."

I stared back at him, eyes narrowed. A satisfied grin had broke over my father's face. I wondered if I had given Connor this look, or the restaurant manager who wanted to keep West from playing the piano, or any number of other people who I intimidated.

We looked so much alike, my dad and I, save for the neat gray hair and wrinkles.

"If you want to threaten me, go ahead. But leave Camilla and her family out of this." I dropped my voice. "I know you had Rick Isley fired. I'm smarter than I look."

Dad's smile widened, and it made him look so damn sinister.

"That was only the beginning," he warned. "Now get in. That's an order, son."

My dad rolled up his windows and buckled his seatbelt. Readjusting his Naval Academy ring on his knobby finger while he waited for me to obey.

A string of silent curses floated over my lips.

I cast a look over my shoulder and saw Camilla walking towards the car, and I swore a chunk of my heart cracked.

I shook my head and held up a hand. "I'll be right back, babe. Just stay with Tom."

Anger and guilt ripped through me as I rushed around to the passenger side, got in, and slammed the door. Unable to look at Camilla and see just how upset she was.

The car jerked into reverse, tires screeching, and we tore out of the Fredericksen's driveway.

If Camilla ever forgave me for this, I was going to marry that girl. Even if I'd have to give her the sun and the moon and anything else to tell her how sorry I was.

"Tell me what you want, and why this is so damn important."

My father decided to purposefully ignore me.

A Cuban cigar was plucked from the center consul, and my dad lit the tip. Cracking the window before taking a long pull and blowing out a cloud of smoke.

I kept my eyes on the road, wondering where he was taking us when he turned towards downtown. It wasn't long before I caught sight of the harbor, and the high row of hedges that obscured the entrance to the Newport Yacht Club.

When we pulled into the parking lot, I was nervous he was going to head towards our small yacht. I had taken the time to chill champagne for Camilla and I. This was supposed to be our last night of in town. Our last night on the water together.

Once we were out of the car, my dad strutted around the front, and gestured towards the docks.

"This way."

My heart was in my throat. I didn't want to be alone on the water with him.

But, he didn't take the long way towards the harbor. Instead, I followed him around the back of the building and down slippery concrete steps that led to a set of rusted metal doors I'd never noticed before. They were tucked in an alley behind the boathouse, the lingering smell of mildew and stale fish hung in the air.

A key was fitted into a lock, and the creaking doors were pushed open.

My sixth sense prickled again. It was dark inside, save for a flickering light, until my father flicked on a set of buzzing overhead fluorescent lights.

It looked like a storage room. Garden tools and old pieces of line. Tatty sails that needed mending and chisels. It was a shit hole that badly needed to be cleaned out and organized.

My dad stepped around a pile of dirty rags and made his way to a door in the back. An angular frame sitting beneath a collared shirt and khaki pants.

"What is this all about?"

My father let out a long breath, then unlocked another door. Turning to me before he opened it.

"This is about our family legacy." His deep voice had taken up the familiar pride it carried whenever he talked about legacies. "And what you are expected to do as a Tenney. Now get inside and shut those doors."

Eyes narrowed, I studied my father's face like I would study a hostile. Two sets of doors keeping us from the outside. My phone wouldn't work. No one knew where I was. I was alone.

I had a tiny pocket knife on me, but no gun. I did have the benefit of being in peak physical shape.

"Move, Southron. You heard me, boy. That was an order. Shut the damn doors."

I gritted my teeth but did as he asked. This was about protecting Camilla, not my pride.

Once the doors were closed, my father opened the next door, and I was not prepared for the abrupt change in scenery.

I took a few steps closer, avoiding the rags, which carried the scent of gasoline, to get a better look.

If I had to describe this place, I would've called it a speakeasy. A hidden prohibition bar. Under any other circumstances, it would've been cool.

There were chesterfield sofas and low-hanging lamps. A thick pool table and card tables, and a polished wood bar. Mercury glass mirrors and dark wallpaper.

No windows. But there were two more doors.

I made a face, and took a step inside.

My father closed the entrance door behind me.

I wondered if the owners of the Yacht Club sanctioned his use of the space. Suspicion prickled again. The McGilvary's owned the Newport Yacht Club.

A sick feeling settled over me.

"I'm here. Now tell me what you want."

My father casually strolled across the expansive room and stretched out on one of the supple leather couches. Crossing ankle over knee.

He gestured to the bar. "Why don't you pour yourself a drink?"

I shook my head. I tried to remember my commander's words during training. Let them think you're comfortable, but always remain in charge. Always keep the power.

"I am the legitimate face of an organization that has been around for hundreds of years. A secret society started by the Tenney's, maintained by the Tenney's, and funded by remarkable local donors."

I crossed my arms and spread out my stance. Settling into my SEAL persona. "That seems pretty vague."

My father clipped and lit another cigar before answering. I waited with a forced look of curiosity.

"The whisper network. We deal in the secrets of old families of this town, and any other, from Martha's Vineyard up to Maine."

Blue smoke twisted like a serpent in the damp air as it trailed from his cigar.

"What kind of secrets?"

"Dirty ones." Another puff of the cigar. "Secrets that get whispered in bedrooms or behind office doors. Secrets, that you are going to start collecting on for me."

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER

(It was getting way too long, so I had to split it up.)