The Next Line ( The Lineage Series #2)

Joshuan

The rain had long since soaked through my shirt, clinging to my skin like the words she couldn't say.

I stood there for what felt like forever, watching the blur of her taillights disappear into the fog.

I should've chased her.

I should've said something.

But my feet were lead and my chest was a goddamn battlefield, too torn up to fight anymore.

"Coward," I muttered to myself as I slid back into the car and slammed the door shut.

I didn't go home right away. I drove around for an hour, maybe more. Took the long way through the industrial part of the city, past the neon flicker of run-down gyms, fast food joints, and the old harbor we used to throw rocks into when we were kids.

By the time I pulled up to the estate, it was past two.

I figured I'd get a few hours of sleep, pretend today didn't happen, start fresh in the morning.

But the second I stepped inside and the lights flicked on in the foyer—I knew I wasn't alone.

"Late night?"

My father's voice cut through the silence like a blade.

I looked up and saw him sitting in the shadows of the hallway, a crystal glass of something brown in his hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie undone of course like always after a long day of business work.

Luis Carvalho.

"Wasn't planning to talk," I said quietly, shutting the door behind me.

"That's your problem," he said, sipping slow. "Always planning not to talk."

I didn't respond.

Just stood there, dripping water onto the marble floor, unsure if I was more soaked from the rain or the weight of what I was about to walk into.

He stood, the ice clinking in his glass.

"Come on. Walk with me."

I hesitated. "It's late."

"You think legacy gives a damn about time?" he asked, already moving.

I followed him.

Through the main hall, past portraits of my grandfather in the early days of the fight clubs, through the private doors that led down the back stairs into the lower level of the estate.

The boxing floor.

It was like walking into a cathedral made of sweat and grit—bags hanging from the ceiling, the scent of leather and liniment thick in the air.

My father didn't say anything for a while.

He just walked the floor, running his fingers along the edge of the ring ropes like they were relics of something holy.

"You remember the first time you came down here?" he asked eventually.

I nodded. "I was six. You made me wrap my hands before I even touched a bag."

He smiled faintly. "Because you needed to learn that this wasn't about fists. It was about control."

I shoved my hands in my pockets. "I've got control."

"Do you?"

He turned to face me then, glass empty, eyes sharp.

"You've got fists, Joshuan. No one questions that. But control? That's something else entirely."