“If I fucked up, where the hell does that leave you?” The jagged wound on Alfred’s face burns as hotly as his contempt. Everything seems calculated to shave away at the slender thread of self-control he has. The unbearable itchiness of the bandages swathed around the burns, the sting of the stitches that closed up where hot shrapnel had ripped through his flesh, the astringent smell of the antiseptic ointment—
—The sight of Father settled in an overstuffed chair and glowering at him over the rim of his scotch glass.
“I didn’t say that,” Arthur snaps. He tips back the glass, swallows. Of course. Father could never go through a crisis without cleaning out the liquor cabinet. The shadows under his eyes are only exacerbated by the flickering light of the fireplace. His thin lips curve into a sneer. “But if you are so keen to be petty about this, I shall indulge you. Optimistic, weren’t you? Trade, modernisation and opening a brand new market outside the boundaries of where my empire stretched. The prospect of out-scheming your dear old father. For you, of course that was irresistible. What could go wrong!”
Alfred smiles sharply. The stitches on his face burn with the effort. It’s worth it. He’d hated the flicker of pity in Father’s gaze when he’d earlier struggled one-handedly with the bottle-opener. Father’s sympathy made him feel naked, hideous and vulnerable. By contrast, his father’s contempt was familiar and comfortable territory.
“The same fucking question you should’ve asked yourself before you decided to cosy up with anyone who was willing to put the squeeze on Ivan. And now it’s only your entire goddamned Pacific empire in the firing line, while you now beg me for help.”
It feels good, hurling that barb, witnessing that flash of uncertainty mar the infuriating facade of arrogance Father always wore. But it’s a shallow, hollow rush that fades.
In his mind, the years recede. Eighty-nine years earlier, his ships had cut hulking, dark and menacing silhouettes in the harbour, as he loudly and proudly announced himself with the smug confidence of a newly-minted world power. Two weeks ago, he’d never even caught a glimpse of the large, sleek vessels that had sneaked across the Pacific and hurled all those planes against him. And how many more ramshackle ships did Arthur have left? To face off against the large, modern navy of the enemy Father himself had lent his skills and expertise to, once upon a time?
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