Chapter Twenty-Three - Five
My father doesn’t come to the funeral. It’s better that way. I’m not sure how my mom is taking the news, since we’ve decided distance is the best course of action going forward. He warned me not to get in touch with Rory because that would just make her a target, so I haven’t.
But I desperately want to. I need to warn her. I need to be there for her. I need to know she’s OK. Hold her in my arms and never let her go.
My grandfather was laid to rest this morning in a private family cemetery on his sprawling ten-acre property in Southern California. The entire organization was present to pay respects, but it wasn’t a complicated affair like it would’ve been had the funeral occurred back in Hong Kong.
Part of me is sad about that, since he loved that city and Taoist funerals are a pretty big deal. We did burn the spirit money—called joss paper—the entire time to give it a little flair. Chen insisted on it, even though my grandfather didn’t believe in spirits.
“It’s always better to be safe than sorry,” Chen had said. “And it makes people feel better if they contribute to his wealth in the afterlife.”
But now that it’s done, my thoughts are on what’s next. Was he poisoned? We won’t know for another week, at least. Who did it? Was it Wen? Maybe. But after hearing his offer, I doubt it. I don’t think it was Wen. How do I figure into all this? Again, Wen’s offer has me questioning everything. And Rory? What’s happening back at Princeton?
“Do you need anything?” Chen asks.
We’re staying in the family home. It’s huge and it sits up in the Rancho Santa Fe hills, just north of San Diego. Everyone is staying here, since there’s ten bedrooms, a pool house, and a guest house. But the place seems empty and quiet from the seclusion of the conservatory on the western side of the mansion. This was not my grandfather’s actual office—that’s in another wing, near the front entrance—but he liked this room best.
“I’m gonna miss him,” I say, sipping a glass of Scotch. I’m sad that he’s gone. I’m sad that I never got to say goodbye. I’m sad that I’m never going to have that final conversation with him. The one where I say no, I will not be part of your legacy.
I admired him as a child. Hell, even well into my teens. When he came to our house when I was little he was just… a well-mannered businessman. Innocuous. But my mom—and especially my dad—were always suspicious of him. When I found why at the age of nine it all seemed… kinda cool. My grandfather was the head of a Chinese Triad.
I was kinda proud of him.
But that was before my mom and dad explained all the shit they were involved in when they were younger. I could hardly believe what I was hearing when they explained Kate’s role in all this. Her biological father was some kind of secret society assassin, for fuck’s sake.
No kid is prepared to handle that.
But I was already on a road to… this by then.
“We’re all going to miss him,” Chen belatedly replies to my sadness.
But I don’t think they are. He was old. It was his time. They want to move on and it shows.
“You need to go back to Hong Kong and make a statement.”
He doesn’t mean statement, as in speech. He means statement, as in acts of violence to ensure I can take Damian’s place as the head of his men.
“Yeah,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. The ice clinks in the cut-crystal glass as I set it down on a nearby table. “I’m heading back tonight. Just a little side trip to Colorado to see my mom and make sure she’s OK.”
“She should’ve come to pay her respects,” Chen says. He’s mad about that, but nobody gives one fancy fuck what Chen is mad about. Least of all my mother.
“My father said no. And when my father says no, the answer is no.”
Chen says nothing.
“I’m going alone,” I say.
“No,” Chen says. “I have to—”
“I said,” I snap, anger flashing in my eyes, “I’m going. To go. Alone.”
Chen sighs, then shrugs. “I’ll get the plane ready.”
“No need,” I say. “I’m going to drive.”
“Drive?” Chen says, his exasperation with me plainly showing. “That’s a waste of time.”
“I have a little time to waste. The meeting with Wen isn’t until next week.”
Chen’s mad about that too. But he has the good sense to leave it alone. We’ve been over and over this meeting several times over the past few days. I told him Wen wants to make a deal in our favor. He’s finally crossing over to the dark side. Most of the officers in the Hong Kong Organized Crime and Triad Bureau are already on the mob payroll. Wen and his small group of do-gooders are the last holdouts. Chen knows if we can get Wen on our side, we’ll be infinitely more powerful. So he’s torn. And he stays silent.
A knock on the glass doors make us both look at the same time. The butler enters with my bags. “Here you are, Mr. Aston.”
“Thank you,” I say, standing up and buttoning my suit coat.
“Your car is waiting outside,” the butler says.
“You’re leaving now?” Chen asks.
“Now,” I say, striding over to the butler. He picks up my bags and we leave Chen standing in the conservatory.
Outside, the Porsche is waiting, as promised. It’s nice. A ’61 silver 718/RS Spyder that my grandfather probably never drove, simply looked at on occasion. The mechanic was clearly against me taking it on a road trip through the Rocky Mountains when I told him to get it ready this morning before the funeral.
But fuck it. If you’re gonna go down, you might as well go down in style.
My two bags—just an overnight satchel and a spare suit in a garment bag—are placed on the passenger seat as I lower my sunglasses and get in.
I leave them all behind, squealing the tires on the smooth concrete driveway. With any luck, I’ll never see this place again.
The trip will be short. I’m not driving a three-million-dollar car to Colorado. These people must be crazy to let me even consider it.
A small smile creeps out as I wind my way through the hills, hugging the corners of the twisting road, and then head up El Camino Real to the McClellan-Palomar Airport in Carlsbad.
A small jet is waiting on the tarmac, as is my father, the infamous Rutherford Aston IV. Einstein-level mastermind of pretty much everything that has kept his family and friends safe over the past twenty-three years.
I’m counting on his genius to pull off the impossible one last time.
“Dad,” I say, getting out of the car and handing the keys over to a waiting attendant.
“Get in,” he says, panning a hand to the jet. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Five.”