by Shen, L. J.
We sat across from each other, me and my adoptive father, looking like a mirror image of one another. Same black Armani slacks, tailor-made for our gigantic size. Same Sicilian handmade loafers. Same black dress shirt—or navy blue, or dark gray, but never white; pale colors were highly impractical when part of your job description was drawing blood by the gallons.
Even our mannerism was comparable. He had an oral fixation he soothed with a toothpick that he stuck to the side of his mouth, and I used cigarettes.
But what it boiled down to was this: Troy and I weren’t blood-related.
He had frosty, alabaster blue eyes. Mine were gray, like Brock Greystone’s.
His hair was jet-black, peppered with gray at the temples and his widow’s peak. Mine was toffee-brown.
He was pale. I was tan.
He was built like a rugby player. I was built like a rugby field.
And he was born into money, while I’d had to adapt to it.
The phrase ‘eat the rich’ always amused me. I’d learned from a young age that it is the rich who eat you. That was why people hated them so much.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
I was never going to be poor again, which was why touching Aisling Fitzpatrick was unwise. The Fitzpatricks made me richer. A whole fucking lot richer than I was when I started out with this gig, breaking legs for congressmen and stashing mistresses on exotic islands.
“This is not going to touch Sailor, Hunter, Rooney, or Xander,” I assured him, referring to my sister, her husband, and her children. I flipped my Zippo back and forth between my fingers, losing interest in the conversation.
“Hunter’s gonna blow a gasket,” Troy noted.
“Hunter’s too busy creating his own family to give a fuck about the one who turned their back on him when he was in boarding school,” I snapped, baring my teeth.
It wasn’t like the Fitzpatricks were winning any Brady Bunch awards anytime soon. If anything, they gave the Lannisters a run for their money.
“I’m not going to spare the feelings of every motherfucker I’ve ever had a beer with. Hunter’ll survive. Gerald has earned my wrath.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Gerald can get your wrath, too. I have no dog in this fight, Sam.” Troy’s nostrils flared, and I could tell he was measuring his words carefully. He’d oftentimes tried to diffuse situations I’d stormed into, mainly because he knew the potential of my exploding was high to almost fucking certain. I liked breaking things and watching them shatter. Call me nostalgic, but chaos reminded me of my childhood. And I was always ready for a bloodbath.
“I just want to make sure you don’t do anything too impulsive. I know you, son. You’ve always been trigger-happy.”
“Not as happy as I’d like to be.” I dropped the Zippo, fingering my St. Anthony charm tied to my neck by a leather string. “Which brings us to the next topic. I caught the Russians smuggling a hundred and thirty pounds of hashish into one of their delis. Whatever Vasily Mikhailov sold—and it was not fucking pastrami—he didn’t hand over a cut from the earnings.”
So I cut his face. An eye for an eye and all that.
Perhaps cutting the Bratva boss’ face wasn’t the most calculated thing I’d ever done, but it sure brought me pleasure to see him screaming in pain as he writhed beneath me.
Troy snarled. “Don’t get me started about the Russians. You had no business taking over their territory in the first place. Back to Gerald Fitzpatrick.” He spun his index finger in the air, rewinding the topic. “I want you to sit on this information until we confirm it. I know it looks bad—”
“It’s airtight,” I lashed out. “I have proof. Hard facts.” I slapped the papers between us.
Not everything Cat had said was true, but most of it was. Enough to warrant my need to wring Gerald dry. The guy murdered my baby brother. My only biological family in this world. Brock was gone. Cat was gone. I could have had something. I could have had a person to take care of.
“And still…” he slammed his fist over the desk between us “…you know something he thinks you don’t know. You have the upper hand now. Operate within the scope of your role, but don’t turn this into the Red fucking Wedding. I know you, Sam. You enjoy delivering slow deaths much more than fast killings. Torture him, but don’t finish him completely.”
He had a point. Why go to Gerald with this information and give him the opportunity to defend himself when I could milk it out of him the good old-fashioned way, by making his life a living hell?
If revenge and punishment were forms of art, my work would be all over the Louvre. I could pluck Gerald’s soul out with a fucking spoon and feast on it, all without upsetting my sister and her gigolo-looking husband.
“Fine,” I drawled, lounging lazily on my leather chair. “I suppose I could torture him a little. But I will go for the throat eventually.”
“Eventually is still at least a few months away, and I hope I can stumble across some information that will make you change your mind between now and then.” Troy stood up, buttoning his blazer, his gaze cold and yet somehow approving.
More than he hated that he’d created a monster, he loathed that he loved it.
My ruthlessness, rough edges, and appetite for blood came from him.
I surpassed him in all of the above.
Troy was an honorable mafia boss in his own backward way. He was well-versed in destruction but only inflicted it on those who had crossed him.
Me, I was corrupt to the bone. Nothing was beneath me. Well, other than rape, pedophilia, beating women and children … you know, the usual subhuman crap.
Any adult man was fair game, and if they wronged me they were done.
It gave me a certain advantage.
“You good?” He stopped by the door, frowning at me.
I lit a cigarette. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”
“Cat—”
“Was, like her namesake, just another pussy. I don’t consider her death an event worth mentioning. The awful apple pie I had to endure from her nagging neighbor next door caused me more discomfort than knowing she had been left to rot in her apartment for a week before people found out.”
“Arright …” His eyes flicked to mine, still searching for a flash of emotion. “Don’t get too wild with your revenge plot against Gerald, ah? Remember, the matter is still under investigation.”
No point in mentioning I’d already dug a grave with his name on it in the forest where Troy killed Brock.
I could’ve had a brother.
I could’ve had an unconditional someone.
“Sure.” I smiled.
Sure.
Flipping through a medical chart, I smiled tightly as my phone danced inside the front pocket of my scrubs. I ignored the vibration against my thigh.
“The tests came back, Mrs. Martinez, and I thought we could go through them together and talk about what they mean for you and what I recommend you do next.” I regarded the woman sitting in front of me in my office.
She blinked steadily, back straight, fingers laced together on my desk, bracing herself for more. Outside, snow came down in sideways sheets. You could barely make it out through the narrow, thick-glassed windows lining the walls.
I fell to the seat in front of her. My phone buzzed again.
“Well. Okay. Let’s see, shall we?” I started flipping through her charts, my eyes burning with emotion as I took in her blood tests. “What do we have here? It says here that … oh, excuse me. Just one moment.” I lifted my forefinger, plucking my phone out of my scrubs’ pocket, internally groaning. Someone better had died. My family knew not to interrupt me while I was at work.
I had three missed calls from Hunter.
One from Mother.
Worst of all, a text message from Hunter.
Years ago, when we were all still youngsters, thrown into different academic establishments and internships around the world, my two siblings and I made a pact. Since we had been raised to believe
our phones might be tracked because of who we were, we couldn’t simply write something as straightforward as “Quick, there was an explosion in one of our refineries, Da’s fault.” So we decided that if something was truly urgent, we’d text each other a secret code: Clover.
An ironic take on the Irish belief that a four-leaf clover brought good luck. Hunter’s text was in all capitals.
Hunter: CLOVERCLOVERMOTHERFUCKINGCLOVERRRRRR.
“I have to take this. I’m sorry.” I shot up from my seat, hurrying out of the office, hustling onto the main clinic’s floor, my phone glued to my ear. Hunter answered before the dial tone started.
“Ash. You have to come home. It’s Da.”
“Is he okay? Is he hurt?” I sucked in a breath, realizing I was already clutching the key to my sensible Prius in my hand, leaving Mrs. Martinez and my responsibilities behind as I darted out the door.
“Physically? He is fine. For now, anyway. There’s no way of knowing what Mom is gonna do to his ass in the next few hours. Listen, Ash, there’s a scandal. Someone leaked some photos and text messages of Da with … uh …” He stopped, and I could tell he was trying to find the right words that would inflict as little pain on me as possible.
That was Hunter. Brutally beautiful and heart-shatteringly soft.
“Just spit it out, Hunt. I know Mom and Dad aren’t giving Romeo and Juliet a run for their money. I’ve lived under their roof my whole life, for goodness’ sake.” I slipped into my car, flooring it on my way to Avebury Court Manor. “What’d he do?”
“It’s a sex scandal,” he blurted out. “Not shocking, I know, but this time there are some pretty graphic pictures on the internet. Da called me as soon as they surfaced. Devon is working to take them down as we speak.”
Devon Whitehall was the family lawyer and one of my father’s closest allies. A British aristocrat with a mysterious past. Hunter, the natural-born charmer among us three, was in charge of everything PR and media related at Royal Pipelines, my family’s oil company. It made sense he was the first phone call Da made.
“Wow.” I tried to disguise the hurt in my voice, mainly because I knew I wasn’t the one who should be hurt. Mother was the wronged one. My eyes burned with unshed tears.
Merde, Mother is going to have a heart attack.
“That’s … ironic,” I managed to cough out.
“Ya think?” Hunter deadpanned, snorting.
Once upon a very long time, Da or Athair (meaning father in Gaelic), as we children referred to him, had dragged Hunter from his school in California all the way back to Boston because a sex tape of Hunter had hit the internet. It made the rounds and provided some very unfavorable headlines for the family. Athair went to extreme lengths to punish Hunter for the national embarrassment he’d caused the Fitzpatrick clan. So this was definitely irony at its best … and worst.
Not that we didn’t know my father cheated on my mother, but he always kept it under wraps and never, ever let it leak. He had the reputation of a flawless family man, and whoever managed to bring him down must be gloating right now.
“Where are you? How is Mother?” I took sharp turns and stole yellow lights whenever I could, ignoring the persistent snowflakes falling down from the sky as I zipped my way through the Back Bay.
“I’m just getting into Avebury Court right now. Sail and the kids are with me. Cillian, Persy, and Sam are already there. Mom is …” Hunter paused, drawing a breath. “I don’t know how she is, Ash. She hasn’t picked up the phone. Hurry. You’re the only one who could ever get through to her.”
I’m the only who makes the effort, I thought bitterly.
“All right, love you.”
“Love you, too, sis.”
With that, he hung up.
My knee bounced against the steering wheel the entire drive home.
Mother. Fragile, vulnerable Jane Fitzpatrick.
Who drowned her sorrow in shopping sprees, cried every time I opted to go out with friends and not stay with her, and always had a ready-made request on the tip of her lips to make me serve her in some way.
Growing up, I’d thought I was just like her.
Meek, shy, and elegant. I’d tried so hard to become what people expected me to be. The fragileness of Jane Fitzpatrick, from her bony structure to her dainty beauty, drew a lot of admirers and the envy and ire of women over the years. But as time passed, I realized I was stronger than my mother, much stronger, and more independent, too.
Which implied I looked like my mom but had the same characteristics as my dad.
That was something I was too grossed out to explore right this moment.
Jane Fitzpatrick slipped in and out of depression like it was her favorite gown, and my father, although he was now retired and dabbled with the family business only a couple hours a day, did very little to try to help her.
Which was why I’d decided to stay at home as long as I could before I’d eventually get married and start my own family.
People always silently judged me for my decision to remain home.
They always assumed I stayed because I wanted to be coddled.
No one had suspected I stayed because I was the one doing the coddling.
But I did just that, flipping the tables and becoming her parent. Her first real depression happened when I was eighteen; I hadn’t slept, spending all my time filling her baths, brushing her hair, giving her daily pep talks, and taking her to doctors.
Since then, I’d helped nurse her through her ups and downs three more times. So having my father so carelessly ruin all my work felt like a stab in the back.
I parked in front of the house with a screech then threw the double doors to our mansion open, ignoring the pitter-patter of my heart at the sight of Sam’s Porsche, which was parked next to Cillian’s Aston Martin and Hunter’s G-Class Mercedes.
Finding everyone was hardly a task. I followed the shrieks and hysterical cries of my mother, all the way from the foyer to the second dining room. Her wails bounced across the high ceilings, ricocheting against marble statues and family paintings.
I came to a halt when I reached the dining area. Mother and Athair were standing at the center, the gardens and heavy burgundy drapes their backdrop as they engaged in a screaming match from Hell.
Mother was so red I thought she was going to explode. Da tried the inconsistent method of apologizing profusely one moment and heatedly defending himself the next. Behind them, I spotted Cillian sneering down at them distastefully, one of his arms draped tenderly over his fair-haired wife, Persephone, who held their son, Astor, close to her chest.
Hunter, Sailor, and their children were there, too. Standing at a safe distance in case Mother started throwing sharp objects, which wasn’t unlikely.
Cillian snapped his fingers once, and two maids rushed inside, wordlessly scooping up the toddlers, who had no business seeing their grandparents like this.
Devon, our family lawyer, was not in the room. I could see him behind the French doors leading to the gardens, talking heatedly on the phone, trying to defuse the situation with the media, no doubt. His footsteps dented the otherwise pristine, untouched snow.
Then there was Sam. He lounged against the wall in the corner of the room, his fists shoved into the pockets of his slacks, a slight, cunning smirk on his lips, all devastating beauty and casual destruction.
I squared my shoulders, feeling my nostrils flare with fresh hot anger.
It had been a week since I’d seen Sam. Since we shared a romp. Since I convinced myself I could worm my way into his heart.
The next day, I’d come to his club, just like we’d arranged, only to find out he was out of the state.
“Sorry, love, but Boss is on more important business than a casual fuck. Guess your two minutes of being Brennan’s mistress are up,” one of his soldiers had said as he laughed in my face when I demanded to go inside.
My ears pinked in shame when I thought about that night. Sam hadn’t even bothered to pick up the
phone and make a call. Text me. Anything to let me know that our plans had changed.
Time had grown thick and sticky since I’d last seen him, each minute lasting forever, like it had moved against a current. Now that he was in front of me, and I couldn’t even give him the scolding he deserved because we were in my family’s company.
My eyes shifted from Sam back to my parents.
“No one asked you to be faithful, Gerald!” Mother flung her arms in the air, exclaiming loudly. “That would be too much for you, wouldn’t it, dear? But why couldn’t you be discreet about it? How much do you think I can tolerate? I am a walking, talking joke! Look at these pictures. Just look at them!” My mother tossed a newspaper in the air, slapping it against my father’s meaty chest.
From my spot by the door, I could see it was a picture of my father titty-grabbing a busty blonde who was giggling at the camera. It was obvious he was butt naked as was she. She was sitting in his lap, and it was also obvious that they were doing it.
“To make matters worse, she is twenty-five! Younger than your own daughter. What were you thinking? Aisling, there you are!” Mother turned to look at me, momentarily forgetting she was in the middle of publicly humiliating my father. “Be a darling and ask someone to give me my special tea with honey and ginger and see to it that my hot bath will be ready soon.”
Everyone’s eyes turned in my direction, surprised and puzzled that I’d been asked to do the task of a butler’s. They shouldn’t be. If they looked closely, they’d see I’d been the help in this house all along.
“Of course, Mother.” I smiled tightly, gliding out of the room with as much elegance and nonchalance that I could muster, delivering requests to the maids to ensure she would be taken care of while I was gone. I returned back to the dining hall just in time to see Mother throwing her wedding band at my father.
Deciding he’d had his fair share of dark entertainment for one evening, Cillian stepped between them.
“Enough. Who do you think could’ve leaked this?” Cillian demanded. “It’s not the woman in the pictures. She is married now, with a child on the way, and is horrified by this coming out. Hunter spoke to her earlier. She claims someone hacked into her old phone and stole the images illegally.”
