Growing up on the streets has its benefits. I know how to put together an operation and run an outfit. Street connections never die, and I used my reserves to get my foot in the door, even drawing on my dead dad to get me connected. Luckily, it worked in my favor. I got my independence. My fortune grew and withit, my power. But the end goal was always Kat in my arms, even if sometimes I was too proud to admit it.
My first break came when I got a job as a bouncer at a local sports bar, and that’s when the owner, Georgio Fratelli saw what I could do with my fists. He saw dollar signs in my relentless anger and wanted to harness it to do his bidding. I had a lot of pent-up rage brewing inside me and Fratelli knew it was an asset. A guy with a broken heart who’s got nothing to lose was a virtual goldmine for a mobster like Fratelli. I was Georgio’s perfect naive hothead to take advantage of—the guy assigned to do his dirty work.
So there I was, nineteen, fucked up and starting to get in deep with the Italian mob. But the one thing I had going for me over the other meatheads was that I was smart. Not just street smart—I had a fucking education from Fairview, the most elite private school on Long Island, thanks to Richard Shaw. The other runners in my circle were lucky if they had a GED and got cocky if they managednotto drop out of high school. Georgio knew what he had in me and hooked me up with a guidance counselor who processed my deferral from NYU and got me re-enrolled to start classes toward an MBA. Georgio was no dummy. He knew what an asset I was, and he spoke to me like I was his equal, well on my way to becoming one of their inner circle.
But the MBA was my ticket to legitimacy. I got established in upper management as a trusted team player and emerging leader. The shot callers adored me and tried their best to groom me. I wasn’t just a punk kid anymore; I was the guy who knew how to manipulate the numbers, launder the dirty money, and create enough shell corporations to have the FBI sniffing around for years before they could pin anything on me.
I was good at my job. Hell, I killed it at work. Listed in Forbes as ‘Thirty under Thirty’ just eighteen months after receiving my degree. I didn’t squirm at corruption. I’d seen it all and then some. And from the way I’d been kicked around like a dog in Wainscott Hollow, I’d learned to be ruthless, sometimes even lethal. I didn’t need to get my hands dirty, there were plenty of underlings for that, but I had no issue being called into the fray. Sometimes I even craved it, like the blood on my hands became a metaphor for the carnage in my heart. Hearing the screams of my victims quieted the desperate screams in my own mind. Who knew the sweet, orphaned kid from Wainscott Hollow would become capable of murder and mayhem that would have any capo quivering in his shiny Italian leather shoes?
I took one more drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my foot and unlocking the giant mahogany door with the Shaw family crest embossed in gold filigree into the glass. Old man Shaw must be so proud looking down on us. His empire is a worthless wasteland, thanks to his insanely inept son.
“Who the fuck are you?” is the first thing Henry slurs.
He stumbles down the marble staircase where the portrait of Richard Shaw now hangs crookedly in its former place of honor. Henry looks like shit, barefoot, clad in striped pajama bottoms that hug his burgeoning beer gut a little too snugly, and a wife beater with yellowed armpits and stains that resemble vomit. I can smell the cretin better than I can see him. His hair has grown long and falls in greasy strings around his jaundiced face. The top his head is completely bald and he looks like a sad Dickensian villain, his chin is covered in a sparse bird’s nest, a jumbled mess of straggly hair attempting to disguise his weak jawline. A beard that, strangely, falls to his navel. He looks clinically insane. The man needs a hospital, not millions ininheritance to squander. No wonder Kat went off and married Eddie to escape the nightmare of this house.
I can’t help but hold my breath as I survey what was once an opulent estate—the pride and joy of the late Richard Shaw who attended to every aspect of its meticulous upkeep. It once was a home, with stunning art, fresh flowers, gourmet meals, and breathtaking gardens in the summertime, a glowing fire warming the library walls in winter. It was now relegated to a haunted manor unfit for human habitation. Animal feces smeared all over the marble of the great foyer. Shattered gin bottles and scattered newspapers and unopened mail littered the floor. Even leaves and detritus from the yard had blown in, as if nature was making its best effort to reclaim Wainscott Hollow, drag it back into the dirt, and bury it six feet under.
It may be worth tens of millions, but the inside has deteriorated so severely, the once stately manor had begun to look like a teardown.
I attempt to step forward, and my boots stick to the floor, which likely hasn’t seen a mop since I left ten years ago. This grand estate has become Henry’s private insane asylum.
A humorless laugh catches in my throat. “Who’s the gutter rat now, Henry?” I’m almost sad for him, but my pity has standards higher than Henry Shaw. He’s done this to himself.
“Get the hell out of my house!” he screams. “You’re not welcome here, you interloper. Leave!” Rage flashes in his beady eyes and his grotesque face turns a darker shade of red. Spittle flies from his lips as he curses me, and I can see he’s not well. Young Shaw has passed the point of no return. There isn’t much left in him, and soon I imagine he’ll be dragging his liver behind him in a box if he doesn’t lay off the booze.
I remember the look in his eyes like it was yesterday. When we were kids, he used to get the same look before charging at Kat or me in one of his violent rages. It looks like he’s got the same idea in mind as he lunges forward, loses his balance, and tumbles down the stairs like an old forgotten ragdoll.
I don’t even attempt to break his fall, as I’m sure this must be a daily occurrence for him. Someday soon, if he’s not careful, this is the way he’ll break his neck and end up confined to a wheelchair. Or he’ll land with a crumpled leg at a grotesquely awkward angle, a compound fracture bursting through the skin. Or perhaps one day he’ll wander down to the dunes, pass out in the sand and drown in the shallows like his beloved mother before him. Any of the viable scenarios do not look good. I don’t feel glee at his demise, only disgust at his absolute debasement. Henry has become a bottom feeder, a slithering slug.
I step to him, my leather boots shining bright in the light of the crystal chandelier. Looking down at the pathetic man at my feet, I breathe a sigh of relief. This is not worse than I expected, perhaps accelerated, but not exactly a surprise.
Removing the deed from the inside of my suit jacket, I drop it on his huddled frame. He curls into a fetal position without looking at it.
“Correction, dear brother. This is my house. Wainscott Hollow was in bank foreclosure and Dad wouldn’t have wanted that, so I did us all a favor and rescued the estate before they evicted you and tossed all of Dad’s treasures into the dump. You’re welcome.”
“Bullshit,” he spits from the filthy floor. “A loser like you could never afford a down payment on a place like WainscottHollow. Besides, the county covenant says no new buyers, only established family names can purchase property in Montauk.”
“Oh, but I can, and I did. Did you forget I’m legally a Shaw, dear brother? Had my name changed legally right after I moved out. I am family and enjoy the privileges Dad intended for me when he adopted me.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’ll never want you. You’re just like me now, someone she can’t stand.”
Not many threats or insults can make my blood run cold, make the hair on my arm and the back of my neck stand at attention, but anything about Kat elicits this kind of response.
Removing my suit jacket, I place it on the staircase railing and proceed to roll up my shirt sleeves. Something about a suit jacket makes people believe you’re not capable of beating the shit out of them. Perhaps that’s why so many in organized crime wear them. An illusion of a professional upstanding citizen, when reality dictates we are capable of the most debase crimes, chopping off fingers or ears without so much as a blink of an eye.
“You know, Henry, I’ve got so many years of payback to dish out. I think it’s only fair to draw out the torture, don’t you? I don’t want to kill you. What would be the point of that?”
Henry waves me away with his hand. The high proportion of gin in bloodstream, together with his tendency toward deluded self-aggrandizing, still affords him a decent amount of misguided courage. In other words, Henry isn’t scared of me, but he hasn’t met the new, improved Heath.
“I’d like to see you suffer, to realize how insignificant you are. Your misguided delusions of importance are over, Henry Shaw.You are broke. Broken. And unfortunately, dependent on me for your future wellbeing.”
I step on his hand gracefully, pushing my shiny Italian leather boots down until the snap, crackle, and pop of his bones crushing under my foot give rise to garbled screams as Henry vomits on himself. I grind my foot with a little wiggle like I’m putting out a discarded smoke, pulverizing the bone shards and making his hand unusable for the rest of his life. He needs to be humbled, put in his place.
“Shame Dad spent so much on piano lessons. Guess you won’t be signing any more papers, Henry, probate or not. But not to worry. I can take over and become the man of the house. You’re in no shape, anyway.” I tsk and shake my head as I tell him, “I’ve looked into some fantastic in-patient psychiatric programs that seem right up your alley. Lock-down, but you’ll get used to it.”
“Kat would never let you throw me out. She’ll stop you.”
“It’s funny the things we tell ourselves in moments of duress. If you believe for a single, solitary second that Kat will come to your rescue, then you, my poor brother, are sicker than I thought.”
