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“Gabriel Reese Hill.” Bettencourt’s solemn. “And Jacob Harrison Chambers. You’re here because you wish to be inducted into the consortium.”
“That’s right,” Jacob murmurs.
I nod.
The low lights cast shadows on Bettencourt’s face, making him look older. And more terrifying. “Both of you have roots in the consortium. You were born of it. It made you the men you are today. In different ways, of course.”
He chuckles, as if we’re all in on an inside joke. I suppose we are.
I want to climb across the table and strangle him. Throw him out the window, though it’s only two stories.
I won’t. I want him to be publicly humiliated first. It settles me to imagine it, though. Funny how all my plans are so clear now that I’m trapped in this room.
“The consortium is based on family,” he goes on. “We build our companies for our families. And in doing so, we find a new family. People who have strong bonds. People who have loyalty.” He leans forward, putting thick elbows on the dark, gleaming table. “You don’t walk away from family. When you take this step, there’s no going back. You become one with the consortium.”
We nod.
He studies us for a long moment. Then he speaks in a louder tone, like a judge might do. “Do you swear your loyalty to the consortium, vow to put the consortium above all other things, and swear to protect it with the utmost fidelity for the rest of your lives?”
“Yes,” I say.
Jacob’s a beat behind me. “I do.”
He matches Bettencourt’s tone, but there’s a note in his voice I recognize. It’s only because I knew him so well. Nobody else would hear the touch of sardonic amusement about all this pomp and circumstance.
I don’t look at him. My muscles are so tense, and my gut in so many knots, that I’d burst out laughing.
My father would have done the same damn thing at a ceremony like this. He would have laughed until he cried, and then he’d have walked out.
This happened after he died. Bettencourt turned their group into something dark and cult-like. That’s why all the other men are sitting so quietly. So stiffly. Watching his every move.
He keeps them in line this way. He dangles their vow of allegiance in front of him and holds midnight meetings incavernous empty buildings. In one corner, a red light on a camera blinks.
The hairs on the backs of my arms stand. What does he need to record during a ceremony that’s supposed to be secret? Me, nodding my head?
Whatever Jacob was sweating about, probably.
Whatever happens next. This initiation is more than words.
“What you have sworn to join today is a group of people who have committed to each other above everything else in their lives. We hold nothing in higher regard than the consortium. And we demonstrate that regard by doing whatever is necessary to increase our profits and build our companies.”
Profits.
Of course.
That’s how they justify murder. My parents were probably the first sacrifice at the altar of money. Maybe that was when Bettencourt realized he could take it that far.
The other men stare straight ahead, stoic. Then, one by one, each of them turns to look at us.
“You have sworn your intention to do the same.” Bettencourt delivers this, then watches us for several beats.
I watch him back. I hope my expression says that I’m delusional and ambitious enough to want what he’s offering.
It’s not as easy as I thought it would be. Who would enter into an agreement so total, and so binding, for money. Why wouldJacobdo it?
Because he still has a father. It’s not about money for him. He wants to make his dad proud. It’s always been about that, which is why he went along with it when Bettencourt and Chambers told him to break up with me.
So Bettencourtisright. This is about family.
