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Shoot me now.
“I don’t like the way this is dragging out.”
God, he’s such a pompous blowhard. The fact that Charles is A, not a lawyer, and B, a fucking idiot, seems to be woefully lost on him.
“How exactly is building a solid defense dragging anything out, Charles?” Gabriel says dryly.
“It looks weak, that’s why,” Caroline chips in.
“Oh, good. The gold-digging sea hag with the IQ of a walnut has some thoughts on the situation.”
Both Caroline and Charles whirl to stare at me in shock and fury when I say it. Behind them, Gabriel shakes his head at me and Taylor bites back a grin as she rolls her eyes.
Oops.
“What the fuck did you just call me?!” Caroline shrieks. She makes to come at me fighting—which would, in all seriousness, be fucking hilarious. Our grandfather grabs her and yanks her back before she can, though.
Pity.
“Now you listen to me, you little bastard,” he growls.
My jaw grinds.
My grandfather has called Gabriel and I terrible things since we were eleven, and I’m used to it by now. He’s a piece of shit and a terrible grandfather: that’s what pieces of shit and terrible grandfathers do. But I do take umbrage with “bastard”, given the details of my origin, and he knows it.
“You can’t speak to her like that,” he snaps.
“I literally just did.”
Charles glares daggers at me. “Where are we with the Chinellato case? Really.”
Taylor clears her throat. “All due respect, Mr. Bla?—”
“He’s not due a shred of respect, actually,” I interrupt. “But do go on.”
Taylor shoots me a look before turning back to Charles. “You know we can’t discuss the case with you, Mr. Black. It’s part of the bylaws of the board.”
Charles smiles patronizingly at her. “I’m aware of the fucking bylaws, Ms. Crown,” he snaps. “But I’m past giving a shit. This is about the reputation of the firm?—”
“Yes, our firm,” Gabriel snarls. “It may surprise you, Charles, but we’re more than slightly invested in it.”
“Then get. The ball. Rolling!” Charles yells, startling even Caroline. He levels a cold smile at us. “You’re aware, I assume, that with my dear wife here also on the board, I now control a majority vote.”
Obviously, we are. But interestingly, he hasn’t used that majority to “get rid of us” like he’s threatened to do in the past.
I take it back. That’s not interesting.
It’s more than slightly worrying.
“I’ve held back, because for all of our bickering,” Charles continues, “we’re still family. But do you have Roberto’s alibi sealed up tight?”
I roll my eyes. “Jesus Christ, Charles. Will you fuck off and let us do our jobs? Yes, we have your fucking buddy’s alibi down.”
It’s airtight, too.
During the timeframe when Roberto is accused of shooting Federico Lombardi in Brooklyn, he was in fact clear across Manhattan in New Jersey, rutting away between the thighs of one Mrs. Valerie Siff. And as it happens, Mrs. Siff is more than happy to stand up and court and tell that to a judge and jury.
Now, why is Mrs. Siff, who is still very much married to Mr. Siff, who happens to be the deputy Mayor of the ultra-rich and snooty Montclaire, New Jersey, so eager to admit to her infidelity involving some shithead gangster like Roberto?
