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“No, Father,” I grunt.
I don’t see the hit coming before it’s too late. My father punches me right in the gut with the hand he wears his rings on, twisting them into my abdomen. “Then stop acting like a little pussy boy, and be a fucking man. Taylors do not stoop to levels beneath them for the hell of it. If we ever pay them any attention, it’s for business and business only. You will remember that, Marnix.” He punches me one more time, knocking the wind out of me, before taking a step back. My back and stomach ache, but I try to pretend I don’t feel a thing. If he sees weakness, he will pounce on it like a lion.
Somehow, I think my father—deep down in his sick head—truly believes that his words and fists are the correct way to teach me; instead, these physical and verbal assaults just make me feel worthless.
“Yes, Father.” He’s angry at me for being kind to a West Sider, instead of acting like I’m better than them. I don’t get his logic sometimes. My mother was originally from the West Side, and he loves her. I don’t get how he can hate them all if she’s one of them?
“Now, if I ever catch you doing that again—acting like a fucking rodent—your punishment will be a lot worse. That was child’s play, compared to the hell I can put your sorry ass through.” He’s almost too calm, like a switch has been flipped and he’s back to the cold, ruthless robot the world is used to seeing him as. This is the devil I’m forced to call my father. The man who wishes I could be just like him.
Evil, savage, and terrifying.
He always hadsomething to say about the company I kept or how I presented myself. Nothing was ever good enough for him, not even me.
It’s because of my father that I don’t like too many people around, snooping in my business. When I first bought this huge house to appease my father, I hired Mariana, paying her well to cook and clean. At first, it was for the sake of appearances, but she’s been a godsend in my life. She’s the kindest, most loyal woman I’ve ever met, besides my mom.
Maybe I could marry her.
I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to do. Who would want to be trapped in a loveless marriage, with no prospect of everything you’d expect in a happy union?
The humming stops, and my best friend’s head pops around the corner from the kitchen. “Woah man, what’s got those overpriced ball holders in a bunch?”
Of course that fucker’s in my house. Rolling my eyes, I make my way into the kitchen, taking in the dark cherry wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and marble countertops. “What are you doing in my house? You know that the guest house out back—the one with everything you could ever need, including a kitchen—is yours?”
Reilly chuckles, slapping a disgusting amount of mayonnaise on the sandwich he’s making. “Yeah, I know man, but the food just tastes way better from your fridge. This house has magical powers or something.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I know it’s hard for him to be alone—he hates it more than anything, which is why I often find him here bugging Mariana when I’m gone. He’s been like this since we were young, even though he tries to hide it.
We’ve been friends for as long as I remember. When I was a kid, my dad would bring me along to his meetings with the Snakes. I’d always end up playing cops and robbers with Reilly, until the meeting was over and my dad would pull me out of there like I was going to get infected.
His father was a member of the Snakes, meaning Reilly was always around. We got even closer when his parents died, since we took him in to live with us. That was all my mom’s idea though. My dad despised the idea, and Reilly himself. He only agreed to take Reilly in because my mom demanded it without relenting. Most days he treated Reilly worse than he did me.
I know my best friend like the back of my hand—he’s here because he’s feeling lonely. Not because my house has magical powers, like he claims.
“Right, because the food’s not the same as it is over there,” I snark, but quickly move on. “Where’s Mariana?”
Reilly smashes together his huge sandwich that looks like a tower. God, what the hell did he put in that? Reilly can put away more food than anyone I’ve ever seen, but he still has washboard abs. I don’t get it.
“She’s in the laundry, but forget about that. Are you going to tell me what has you throwing your shit everywhere like a toddler, or are you going to keep changing the subject?”
I sigh, knowing I’d eventually give in and tell him. “Kate finally got my dad’s will today.”
His eyes light up. “Oh shit, that’s good!”
I groan at his excitement. “Not good. He set a very specific condition. If I want the firm, I have to be married for a year.”
The light drains from his eyes, leaving him looking as defeated as I feel. “Damn, man. That’s bullshit.” He immediately understands the impossibility of it, without needing me to explain.
“I know,” I mutter. “I only have three years to do it. If I don’t, the firm goes to Randall Crowe.”
Reilly’s brows furrow, his face reddening. “I hate that fucking prick. I knew I should’ve knocked his ass out cold the last time I saw him.”
“Tell me about it.” I can feel the rage rising in me as I lean my palms against the cool counter.
“What are you going to do?”
He’s asking the same question I’ve been asking myself since I walked back into the office after lunch today. I’ve picked the will apart, and I can’t find a way around it. That fucking will is ironclad. Completely impossible to break. It even looks like he set it up in a way that I can’t even claim the terms are unconscionable.
“I guess I'll find someone to marry.”
