Pedro Picasso sat in his study like a beast caged in velvet and gold. The low hum of silence in the room was deceptive.
Nothing in his mind was quiet. A storm roared behind his eyes.
The wood-paneled walls, the heavy curtains, the faint scent of cigar smoke, none of it soothed him now.
He was seething.
Paulo.
The whole threat thing had not seemed to have any effect on him.
That bastard had become unpredictable.
Dangerous even.
He had been listening in on their conversation the night before, of course it hurt him that his daughter was in a dilemma and pained but to Pedro, pain was a necessity.
Nothing great ever comes easy.
He had expected that Paulo would have held back and allowed her work her way through it. Who knows, she might have even spilled a little on what she had been doing. Instead, he went out of his say to jam communication between them.
Pedro clenched his fists, veins thick across the back of his hands.
