Chapter 12 Work

Rook POV It’s a short walk, not as short as Kade’s would be if he were heading back to his place, but close enough. That was my father’s doing, making sure I stayed nearby even after I could have moved out on my own. Other guys my age, other players, have their own apartments, their own lives. Not me. Because when your father runs the city, you don’t just walk away. By the time I reach the estate, the sun is already dipping lower, washing everything in a dull gold light. The gates open as I approach, and the security stationed outside barely glances at me. They all know who I am. More importantly, they know what my father would do to them if anything happened to me. The house is as cold and impersonal as ever, a sprawling mansion that screams power rather than home. The moment I step inside, I hear voices coming from my father’s office, low murmurs laced with tension. I should head upstairs, pretend I don’t hear it, but I don’t. Instead, I step toward the heavy wooden doors and push one open. Inside, my father is seated behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand, watching two men standing in front of him. The tension in the room is thick, and I recognize both men immediately, one of his bookies and a lower-level enforcer. My father doesn’t look at me right away, but the shift in the room is instant. The men stiffen, their eyes darting to me before quickly looking away. They know better than to acknowledge me unless my father does first. Nikolai Volkov finally glances up, his dark eyes assessing me with that unreadable gaze I’ve known my whole life. “Rook,” he says simply, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “You’re late.” I smirk, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Didn’t know I had a curfew.” He doesn’t react to the smartass remark, but I don’t expect him to. My father doesn’t deal in petty punishments or empty threats. When he’s disappointed, you feel it in the air, in the weight of his silence, in the way things start shifting against you. I step inside, closing the door behind me, my eyes flicking to the two men still standing stiff in front of his desk. The bookie looks nervous, shifting slightly, like he’s waiting for permission to breathe. “What’s going on?” I ask, though I already know it’s business. “An issue with one of our investments,” my father says smoothly, lifting his drink to his lips. “A delay in payments. An oversight.” The way he says it makes it sound insignificant. But I know better. In this world, debts are never forgotten. I glance at the bookie. “How much?” He flinches slightly, hesitating before answering. “Eighty grand.” I whistle low, shaking my head. “Dumb move.” The enforcer standing next to him tenses, probably expecting me to say something that’ll make this whole situation worse. Maybe I will. I haven’t decided yet. But my father just smirks, setting his drink down. “Mistakes like these don’t go uncorrected. You know that.” The bookie swallows hard, nodding. “I..I just need a little more time. I’ll get it.” My father tilts his head slightly. “That’s not how this works.” There’s no raised voice. No threats. Just a simple fact laid out in a way that makes the man standing in front of him go pale. I don’t bother feeling bad for him. If you borrow money from the Volkovs and think time is something you control, you’re already dead. I step forward, resting a hand on the bookie’s shoulder. He stiffens, his breath coming out in quick bursts. “Don’t make me have to clean up your mess,” I say casually. “I hate dealing with shit like this.” He nods quickly, his face damp with sweat. My father leans back in his chair, watching, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Rook, why don’t you remind him what happens when people fail to pay their debts?” I sigh dramatically, shaking my head. “Do I have to? It’s such a boring lesson. And I think he already gets it.” The bookie nods so fast it looks painful. “I do. I swear, I do.” My father lifts a hand, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist. The man practically runs out of the office, and I chuckle, shaking my head as I drop into one of the chairs across from my father’s desk. “You’re getting soft,” I tease. “A few years ago, you wouldn’t have let him walk out so easily.” My father smirks, but there’s something darker beneath it. “A few years ago, I wouldn’t have let him walk out at all.” The words settle in my chest, familiar but weighted, a reminder of the kind of man my father is. A reminder of what I was born into. I pick up the whiskey bottle from his desk, pouring myself a glass. “You got anyone else to deal with, or are we done for the night?” “For now,” he says, watching me over the rim of his glass. “But I expect you at the charity game tomorrow.” I lift an eyebrow, taking a sip of my drink. “You don’t even care about hockey.” “I care about investments,” he corrects. “And that game is full of them.” I know exactly what he means. Plenty of players he owns, plenty of bets placed, plenty of ways to make sure things go his way. I wonder briefly if Kade is one of them, if this distraction, whatever’s going on in his head, is connected to my father’s business. If he is, I’ll find out soon enough. I finish my drink, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “I was already planning to be there.” My father studies me for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. Then he nods once, dismissing me. I push to my feet, rolling my shoulders as I leave the office, my mind already shifting back to tomorrow. Whatever has been weighing on Kade, whatever is pulling at him, I’ll be there to see it. And if I find out someone else has already started breaking him down? Well. They’re just going to have to wait their turn. The locker room is humming with the usual pre-game energy, the guys are stretching, taping their sticks and adjusting their gear. They are all going through the motions like this just any other game. It's not. At least for me it isn't. Sitting on the bench, I lace up my skates with slow deliberate movements, letting the anticipation settle deep into my chest. This game isn't important in our standings, and such, it's just a charity game. it's meant to be a time when we put on a good show, winning and losing means nothing. I don't care about the show, the only thing that matters to me right now, is that Kade Mercer is on the other side of the ice. For the first time in years, I don't know what version of him I'm going to get on the ice.