Rivals

CHAPTER 1:

Rebecca

"Rebecca Vera Vecellio, I told you once and I'm not going to say it again," my father spoke harshly as he stopped pacing across his office.

He unbuttoned two buttons of his black, suede jacket, and took a few deep breaths to control his annoyance. His very presence could be absolutely terrifying at times, but that never stopped me from confronting him.

"I am the boss of this business and that means that you will not disobey my orders." He walked closer to where I stood, defensively, in his small office, and towered over my five-four stature.

I shifted back, leaving a little over two feet of space between us so I could assess the situation and prepare for my counter argument.

Just as I opened my mouth to argue, he rambled on.

"You cannot go to the docks tonight for the incoming shipment. I have my own reasons why you are not allowed to be there, but please Rebecca, just drop this. You are giving me a migraine over this and I need to be at my best for tonight," he said the last part more to himself.

His words stung as tears began to swell in my eyes.

"It's just a dock shipment. Why can't I go?" I protest with a cracking voice.

When he hears the hoarseness in my voice, he takes a few steps back and leans on his mahogany desk, then crosses his arms and sighs.

"Rebecca—we can't keep doing this every time you disagree with me," his voice softens. "We run a very powerful business, and I do not want you involved."

"Why don't you just use the word gang Dad? We all know that's what our business is," I quote a little annoyed.

"Gang sounds disheveled and scrappy. We are classy and more importantly, off the police radar."

"Mysterious millionaire family living in the biggest house in New York, but no one knows how the fortune was made—yep, sounds like we are completely off radar," I sarcastically imply.

"My point is, you cannot go to the docks," he announces, getting back on track.

"Why can't I come?" I debate once again and my father grunts, propping himself off his fixed position against his desk.

As my father ran his fingers through his dark brown hair and walked behind his desk, I knew this conversation was about to end, and I was about to lose.

But losing this was not an option.

"You just cannot come, Rebecca. You...you're not ready to see the illegal things, and I couldn't bear it if you got hurt," he spoke with great sadness in his voice. "Just, respect my decision and drop your obsession with arguing with me on the daily about this," he ordered rather than asked.

He hesitated as he reached for his vintage, glass liquor bottles on the table beside his desk. His hesitation almost spoke, do I drink the hard stuff to take my migraine away, or should I stay sober and be at my best for this shipment tonight?

When he tensely withdrew his hand and pressed his lips together in a flat line, I knew the second option had won. I also knew that with his choice, I could hopefully finish and win the rest of this argument. 

"That's just it Dad! I wouldn't have to stand here everyday and argue with you if you would just let me do something—anything," I retorted. "All I have ever done for nineteen years is train in self defense and learn how to count the money we make," I complain.

My vision is now blurry from the tears that try to escape my eyes, but I can still see him just standing there, looking at me with his blue eyes.

I felt like an incompetent brat who doesn't get their way whenever I argue with him.