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Santos
We get home an hour later. My father purchased this property five years ago. When the original family who owned it, one of Avarice’s finest, lost everything, the bank had taken it over. That had been more than a decade ago. The house had then been left to rot, the grounds turning into a forest of weeds. It’s a beautiful, gothic structure my father has rebuilt, putting thought into every detail and sparing no expense.
Soft piano music comes from the living room, where I can see a fire is lit.
“Evelyn,” Father calls out to our mother as Caius and I follow him toward the living room.
“You’re late,” Mom says, heels clicking as she comes around the corner. She’s dressed as if she’s been out, which she probably has, with a martini glass in one hand and the other reaching to wrap around our father’s neck. She kisses his cheek. “How did it go?” she asks, glancing at us.
“As expected.”
“It’s done?” she asks, her gaze falling to the handkerchief I’m still clutching even though my hand has mostly stopped bleeding.
“It’s done. Get me one of those, will you?” he asks, gesturing to the martini glass in her hand.
“Of course,” she says.
“Santos. Come, we’ll celebrate,” Dad says.
“I’ll be right there. I’m sure Mom doesn’t want me bleeding all over the furniture.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” Mom says and watches as Dad glances to Caius, then walks into the living room without another word.
I look at my brother, too. Is he disappointed?
“Caius,” Mom says, walking toward him to take his hand. “You should come too. I’ll pour you a whiskey.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Caius says. “I’m actually heading out anyway.”
“At this hour?”
He checks his watch. “I have a card game.”
“Hmm.”
“Go take care of Dad.”
There’s a beat where she doesn’t reply. I watch the moment, this silent interaction between them. Caius and I share the same mother, but we don’t share the same father. Mom was a single mother when Dad met her.
“All right,” she says, then turns to me. There’s another moment, an empty one, until she smiles her brilliant smile. She is a beautiful woman, our mother. Younger than Dad by ten years, she spends her time taking care of herself since Dad refuses to let her work. “Santos, go get cleaned up. You’re right. I don’t want you bleeding all over the living room. Usual drink?”
I nod. My usual is a club soda. No alcohol for me. I’ve seen what it does both to others and to myself. I can’t afford to lose control like that.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I tell her. She brushes something off my shoulder then returns to the living room, humming quietly as she sips her martini.
“You want to come with me?” Caius asks once she’s gone.
“Nah. Not tonight.” I study my brother. He’s two years older than me. I was an unexpected but happy surprise, according to Mom. She never expected to have more kids. Something had gone wrong when she’d delivered Caius, and she’d been told she couldn’t have any more. “Don’t let Dad bother you. He’s just caught up in the moment. He’s been waiting for this for so long.”
Caius studies me back, and after a moment, a smile spreads across his face. He pats my back. “No worries, brother. I’m a big boy. I can take a little rejection.” He checks his watch. “Besides, I think I’ll be having the better night.”
“The Club?”
“Augustine’s,” he says with a wink. Augustine’s was formerly known as The Club. It was, and still is, an exclusive, invitation-only club for the elite of Avarice.
My aunt, Dad’s older sister, used to scrub the toilets there. She died when I was too young to remember her. But our father tells me about her at every turn. Dad bought out the owners a few months ago after they repeatedly denied his applications for membership. He finally got pissed enough to do it. It’s how money works. It’s how the Augustines work. Would I have done it if it had been me? Probably not. Why be around people who look down their noses at you? But for Dad, it was personal, and he passionately insists on calling it by its new name. He’s never been one to take no for an answer lying down.
“Enjoy,” I tell Caius, then head up to my room to clean and bandage my hand. I think about the girl as I go. Madelena De Léon. I didn’t like hurting her, and I won’t forget the way she looked at me afterward. But it’s done now. She belongs to me, and once the Augustine and De Léon families are united in holy matrimony, we will be unstoppable.
