One
Achilles Farrell had been called many things in his thirty years.
Dumb fuck.
Ex-con.
Bastard.
That last one behind his back since most people were leery of insulting a six-foot-four-inch-tall, 214-pound man to his face.
But never had he been called an heir.
Brother.
And in the space of one afternoon, he’d become both.
After a shock like that, he needed alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
Achilles stared at the neon red signs advertising the various beers on tap as well as framed posters declaring this pub the bestandworst Beacon Hill, Massachusetts, had to offer. Hopefully, that ambiguity didn’t translate to its liquor quality.
It’d been a couple of hours, but he could still feel the judgmental gazes of “polite” Boston society on his skin like a thousand ants. The sensation deepened his thirst for the coffee-and-caramel flavor of a perfectly drawn Guinness, sharpened his anticipation for the burn of whiskey down his throat. Had him damn near demanding the bartender bring him another round when he hadn’t even requested his first drink yet.
“What can I get you?” The bartender leaned on the scarred bar top. Despite the colorful tattoos running the length of both arms, the young woman barely looked old enough to drink the alcohol she was serving.
“A shot of Jameson and a Guinness.”
She nodded. “Coming up.”
Only when she turned around to start building his drink did he exhale, some of the tension in his shoulders leaking out of him like a slowly released valve. Maybe once that Irish whiskey hit the back of his throat, the cold in his bones from that mockery of a funeral would finally dissipate.
To think, just three days ago, he’d been in his small cabin, alone except for his computers, just the way he liked it. That’s when he’d received a certified letter about the death of a man his mother had always refused to talk about although she’d given Achilles his last name. Achilles hadn’t given a damn then, just like he didn’t now, about a will or an inheritance. But morbid curiosity about the man who’d impregnated his mother had compelled him to accept the paid-for plane ticket and travel thousands of miles across the country.
As soon as he’d stepped off the plane and met the glacial expression of the chauffeur, Achilles had regretted his rash decision. He’d thought landing in prison had cured him of his hot, impulsive behavior. Apparently not. And now he was paying for his spur-of-the-moment decision to attend the funeral and the reading of the will for his so-called father.
A year.
He had to give up an entire year of his life, remain in Boston, with half brothers he didn’t know, and run a company he had no clue how to operate. A company he wanted no part of.
That was the price his father demanded Achilles remit.
Even from the grave, Barron Farrell was a selfish, narcissistic asshole.
When he was growing up, Achilles had begged his mother to tell him who his father was, to introduce Achilles to him. She’d always refused both requests. He’d resented her then. If she were alive, he’d thank her.
He propped his elbows on the bar top and ground his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. What he wouldn’t give to be back in Tacoma, Washington, in his cabin less than a mile from the Cascade Range. So far away from affluent Beacon Hill, Massachusetts. And not just in location.
Yeah, Tacoma had its wealthy, but as the son of a waitress, he didn’t have any use for them. In his experience, the rich either fucked you or fucked you over.
But as he’d stood in that mansion’s ridiculously huge library with its hardwood floor, leather furniture, fireplaces large enough for even him to stand in, spiral staircase and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, it hadn’t been just his black thermal shirt, faded jeans and battered brown boots that had differentiated him from the other men in the room.
Cain Farrell—his older brother, the heir, the son Barron Farrell had kept and acknowledged. Kenan Rhodes—the youngest son, biracial and the other bastard besides Achilles. But both men hailed from the same world. Boston’s elite. It was in the razor-sharp yet elegant cut of their suits. The cultured speech. The arrogant demeanor.
Achilles had encountered people like them. And had ended up despising every one of them.
Now he had to call them brother.
Life should really offer him a cigarette when it decided to fuck him.
