"Exactly." I crack my neck. Thrice. "It forces my mind to stop running scenarios. Stop cataloging threats. Stop calculating probabilities. There'sjust the descent. The silence." I tap my knuckles on the table. Thrice. "When I surface, the compulsions are quieter. Sometimes, for hours. Sometimes, a whole day."
"That's why you do it." He sits back in his seat. "Not for the adrenaline. For the reset."
"Yes." I look down at my cards. "It's the only time my mind is truly quiet."
There’s silence for a few seconds as they digest what I shared; only because my brothers are the only people I truly trust in this world. Enough to share a little more than I would with my brigade. Almost as much as I shared with my platoon.
I tighten my hold on the cards.
I take a few deep breaths, forcing myself to feel my arms, my legs. I flex my feet in my shoes, reminding myself of where I am. With my brothers. I am safe. My shoulder muscles relax.
"You going to light up that cigar?" Tristan nods at the cigar between my lips.
"Nope."
"How it helps you not smoke, I don’t understand."
"Reverse psychology." I shrug a shoulder. "If I know a cigar or a cigarette is within reach, it seems to calm my anxiety around where my next smoke is gonna come from."
"The same way you have a different woman on your arm each week. But when they want more than just casual dating, you dump them."
My grandmother’s voice reaches us from the entrance to the room.
I swallow my groan. Margot has the ears of a bat. She’s also known to be ruthless when it comes to business. I look around the table. All of my brothers seem surprised.
Guess they didn’t know she was coming either.
I set down my unlit cigar in the ashtray and rise to my feet, taking her hands in mine.
"Margot.” I kiss her on both cheeks and catch the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5. It’s a fragrance I’ve always associated with my grandmother.
As always, her five-foot, four-inches figure is impeccably dressed. A designer pink pantsuit, a green scarf draped neatly at her neck, a handbag that likely costs thousands. Her stiletto heels were madespecially for her in Italy by a designer who caters to only a handful of celebrities.
She’s in her early eighties. Yet, with her perfectly-styled silver hair, unlined features which are perfectly made up, and the firm line of her chin, she could easily pass for someone in her fifties.
She also has the kind of work ethic that puts me to shame.
I remember calling her Granny and being reprimanded in no uncertain terms. That was when I was five. I learned my lesson.
She takes the seat I’ve vacated. Gideon pours her a glass of whiskey. Tristan offers her a cigar, and Beckett lights it for her.
She puffs on it, then arches an eyebrow. "Not bad."
"Tristan spares no expense when it comes to his cigars. Or James with his whiskey," Beckett points out.
Since Gideon provides us with the space, we take turns supplying the cigars and the whiskey.
She sets her cigar in the nearest ashtray, lifts the glass of twenty-five-year-old Macallan, inhales its aroma, then takes a measured sip.
"Well?" I half smile, knowing she’s going to give me her opinion, whether I ask for it or not.
"It tastes like a wet sock on a hot summer’s day."
My jaw drops, considering we all chose this top-shelf whiskey. "Ex-fu— I mean, what?"
"Gotcha." She chuckles. Then she concedes, "It’s not bad.”
Some of the tension drains from my muscles. I’ve run kitchens with teams of five hundred and turned over a thousand covers in one afternoon, but getting my grandmother’s approval is not something I take for granted.
