BEEPING MACHINES AND TUBES surround my father's body as he lies in the bed, his lined face ashen. He looks so weak and fragile even though he's only forty. I never thought of my Papa as anything less than invincible. I perch on the corner of the mattress, unsure of where to place my hands. That's a new one for me. I've never felt so uncertain before, so ill at ease. It's a new and unsettling sensation, one that makes me wonder if I should stay or go.

The private nurses set up a hospital-like suite in another wing of the Martell house, far from where his old master bedroom used to be. It's strange to see my father here, not only in a different setting--these bland cream walls remind me of oatmeal and the beige carpet isn't much better--but also looking like the senior citizen that he is. It unnerves me. If my father isn't a bulwark against the dangers of this world, against those trying to tear our family down and apart, then who is? The memory of Antonio Cavalli's betrayal still sears through me, a sting that accompanies a bleeding wound. My every heartbeat pulses to a rhythm that is vowing revenge on the Cavalli's.

I found a better one. The words shouldn't ache as much as they do. It's not like I ever thought such a marriage with him would be a love match, or that he would appreciate me for more than the superficial assets and ties to power that I would bring him, but a girl has pride. And it's an easily wounded ego that smarts at rejection.

I can't help but think that Antonio's words were the catalyst for my father lying here in this bed hooked up to IVs and to machines keeping him alive. They shocked him into realizing his own frailty. Although I've seen him shake off gunshot wounds before and be up and running the next day, Charles Martell won't be around forever. His mortality is a thought that I brush away, like an irritating gnat. Only this particular insect is laced with poison and venom, threatening to leave a permanent scar if I'm not careful.

"Comment te-tu sens, Papa?" I ask when his eyelids flutter open. How are you feeling?

He's not grouchy as I expected, which is good. "Tres bien avec toi ici, ma petite puce." Very well with you here, my dear.

Is he being kind? Sappy, even? The thought startles even more than a slap to the face would, even more than the sight of him in this bed does. "Ca me rend heureuse." That makes me happy.

"Now, tell me of more pressing matters. What is the state of the Cavalli's? What have you done to avenge our family, Priscilla?" My father lifts a hand to run it through his greying hair.

I lift my chin, ready to make him proud. Then I tell him about Lucas Black, the deal we cut, and the contacts I've made so far. However, instead of seeing a smile cross his face, I see a frown, emphasizing the lines around his mouth and eyes.

"The FBI? That's something we don't want to tangle with," he warns, sounding as grave as a king issuing a death sentence from his throne. All he needs is a sceptre to complete the image. "While I appreciate your devotion to notre famille, it could very well get us all killed."

"I know what I'm doing." Straightening myself up, I pull my shoulders back and try to emulate his ever-regal posture.

He sighs, folding his hands in his lap, covering the blanket. "Call my lawyer in. There's something you need to know, ma fille."

"What is it?" The nature of the visit has scrambled my mind, twisting my thoughts into an unusually nervous jumble. I can handle it. Whatever he tells me, I can handle it.

"While I know I will likely recover from this injury, that may not be the case next time. So, I thought you should know about the contents of my will." Charles Martell's green eyes stare straight ahead at the landscape painting on the wall, not shedding a single tear.

"Papa," I say, then pause. Denial won't do me any good, as much as I want to say, don't talk like that, you'll live to be a hundred and three. We both know it's not true. As for questioning why he wants to talk to me about the will, I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. What if he has something to bestow upon me? "Thank you for trusting me with this."

His green eyes widen, intensity burning behind his irises as he looks straight at me. "What I tell you can never leave this room, ma chere. Not even your mother--cette vache--can know."

I chew on my lower lip, trying not to flinch at the vulgar words he uses to describe her. "Of course, Papa."

He presses a button by his bedside, one that resembles an intercom, and murmurs a few words in French. Shortly after, Roland Chretien, his lawyer, enters the room. The man's imposing bulk and dark suit seem out of place in a room that is decorated in such anodyne tones, making Chretien seem like a bull in a china shop.

"Thank you for coming, Monsieur Chretien," my father says with a nod. He gestures with one hand toward the two leather armchairs facing the bed. "Take a seat."

Chretien seats himself, perching on the edge as though ready to spring up at any moment. His sheer size as well as his alert posture make him appear more suited to the role of bodyguard than lawyer. "Quoi est neuf?"

"It's the will," my father says. "I need you present to discuss it."

Chretien launches into a long description of the will, pulling a sheaf of papers from his leather briefcase, dark snakeskin marked with three glittering letters: S. IN. Finally, after all the legal jargon has been spewed, he says two words that catch my attention. "Christina Martell."

I perk up. "What about her?"

What more could this usurper possibly take from me now? First, an engagement. Now, what?

"She's listed as a beneficiary in your father's will, but only under one condition. That he dies under natural causes. If he does not, the one million dollars that was meant to go to her, as well as the Provence estate, will be given to your cousin." Closing the leather portfolio as though he's spoken absolutely nothing of significance, Chretien tucks it back into his briefcase. "As well, as you may know already, you and your sisters will be dividing the rest of your father's assets equally, with a trust for your mother to use for the remainder of her life, provided she does not remarry."

Gritting my teeth to keep my jaw from dropping open, I smile at him. "Thank you for telling me, Chretien."

One million dollars and the Provence estate? The Provence estate is my favourite. I feel like a child sulking over a favourite toy, and I have to clamp down on the petulant emotions rising in me as I look at my father. His dignified expression never changes. "I see you don't approve."

"I was only surprised, father." The lie spills out, a self-defence mechanism that I've engrained in me from years of harsh punishments. Still, it hurts all the same to speak it. "After all, I had never heard of Christina Martell until now."

"Of course, but you understand that she is one of my heirs, just as you and your sisters are." He speaks calmly, each word intoned with gravitas. Not an ounce of affection. We are nothing more than extensions of him, like a hand or a leg. Something to be taken care of, lest it fall into disrepair, but not truly cared for. And certainly not something that can dare to question him. "It is my duty to provide for her."

"Was this always in your will?" I ask. It will earn me nothing more than a cold look, or a cutting remark, but I try anyway. I have to try. For my mother, for my true sisters, I have to try. "Or was it only when Cavalli brought her into your life...?"

"Do not ask me of these things, Priscilla." For once, he looks tired. Not physically tired, as he did when he lay unconscious in the hospital bed, unmoving, but spiritually tired. Emotionally drained. The bags beneath his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks speak of barrenness, a hollow place inside of him that cannot be filled no matter how hard he tries.

Or maybe, I'm only projecting my own feelings onto him.

"Rest well, Father." I stand from my chair beside his bed and brush past Chretien, my Jimmy Choos clicking across the floor. I will avenge our family.

BACK FROM FRANCE, SLIGHTLY tanner, and still without a message from my mother on my phone, I begin to worry. Not telling Antonio where I'm going--he told me he would be busy with meetings all day anyway--I commandeer one of his cars and a driver. Making my way into the city, I feel like a different person. Fresh eyes and all that jazz. But what has changed me to make me view the city as less of a concrete jungle to explore and disappear into and more of a hustling, bustling place without a single oasis of serenity? What has changed to make me concerned for my mother rather than the other way around?

I don't want to dwell on the answers. Instead, I make my way to the small apartment building with trepidation, clutching my purse in front of me. Everything looks so dingy compared to the place I've just spent weeks in, and I scold myself for getting too accustomed to luxury when I grew up in near-destitution. How could I let myself forget so quickly where I truly come from?

Riding the elevator up, the scratched metal walls, buzzing fluorescent lights, and the pervasive smell of cheap lemony cleaner assault my senses. The other passenger is a short man in a grey suit wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. I step aside, trying not to look like I want to get as far away from him as possible, while also trying to get as close to the other corner of the lift as possible. Fortunately, his time on the elevator is shorter than mine.

Heart beating fast for reasons I can't discern, I swing my hands from side to side in an effort to alleviate some of the tension pulsing through my body. Nothing is wrong. Nothing. I trace the familiar path to the apartment where my mother lives and where I spent most of my life. When I open the door, my jaw drops.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"