Chapter 5 - Secrets in the Study
Kendrick’s private study was a cavernous room lined with thousands of leather-bound books, antique weapons mounted on the stone walls, and a massive mahogany desk covered in encrypted laptops and financial ledgers.
Willa stepped inside, closing the heavy oak door behind her. She stood near the hearth, keeping a safe distance from his desk.
"You have a habit of making enemies very quickly, Willa," Kendrick said, walking over to a crystal decanter and pouring two fingers of amber whiskey. He didn't offer her any.
"I didn't ask to be here," Willa retorted, crossing her arms. "If Barrett wants to bark like a dog, that's his problem. I'm not going to sit there and let him talk to me like trash."
Kendrick took a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes never leaving her face. "Barrett is a dangerous man. He manages our overseas shipping ports. He has syndicates in Palermo and Marseille answering to his nod. Making an enemy of him inside my house is... imprudent."
"Then send me home," Willa challenged, stepping closer. "Let me go back to my apartment, my job, my normal life. You don't need a waitress playing bodyguard to your daughter."
Kendrick set his glass down on the edge of the desk. He walked slowly toward her, his movements predatory, quiet, and completely dominating the space between them.
"You aren't a normal waitress, Willa Hayes," Kendrick said softly, stopping just inches away.
Willa’s breath caught in her throat. The scent of cedar, expensive cologne, and dark espresso washed over her.
"What are you talking about?" she managed to say, keeping her voice steady.
Kendrick reached out. His long, calloused fingers brushed gently against the collar of her emerald dress, catching the edge of her hidden silver pendant and pulling it out into the light.
Willa froze. Her blood turned to ice water.
It was her father’s pendant—a custom-engraved crest bearing the initials A.H.
Kendrick stared at the silver metal, his expression darkening into something unreadable. Shadows flickered across his eyes, a turbulent storm of memories long buried.
"Arthur Hayes," Kendrick murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper. "CFO of Hayes Logistics. A stubborn, honest man who died in a tragic car accident on a mountain road outside Albany six years ago."
Willa’s hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She could deny it, she could lie, she could run—but looking into Kendrick's eyes, she knew the truth was already bare.
"You killed him," Willa whispered, her voice trembling with six years of bottled rage and sorrow. "Your syndicate murdered my father because he wouldn't help you launder blood money."
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Kendrick didn't flinch. He didn't deny it with empty platitudes. Instead, he looked down at her with a profound, heavy sorrow that shocked her to her core.
"I didn't kill your father, Willa," Kendrick said quietly. "In fact... I was the only person in the syndicate trying to keep him alive."
