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My mother sighs and lifts her hand, waving us away. “Fine. Go with your father. My time with you is complete. I’m going to go upstairs, finish my bottle of wine, and take a nice long bath,” she murmurs.
She stands, reaching to the side table, and wraps her fingers around the neck of the bottle as she picks it up. I watch her for a moment as she moves through the formal living room. She stops and looks over her shoulder at me.
Her eyes find mine, and she holds my gaze before she lets out a heavy sigh. She’s had enough to drink now that her lips are a little looser than they were a few hours ago when I asked about the girl in her office.
I almost ask again about her but decide against it. I’ll stick with my original plan of breaking into her office and stealing what I want from her planner. It’s illegal, an invasion of privacy, and an asshole move, but I don’t really give a shit. That feeling of guilt and morality left my soul a long time ago.
“Wells,” my mother calls out.
She gives me a wide smile, one that I know means she’s had a bit too much to drink. I almost laugh. Unlike some people, my mother is a fun drunk. She’s usually not someone who does silly things, except when she’s had too much to drink.
“Mom?” I ask when she doesn’t speak right away.
Her lips curve up into a smirk. “I don’t know her well, but I just wanted to say she’s my patient, and of course, that means she has her own set of issues, but it’s nothing I would ever be too concerned with.”
Then she turns her back to me and continues on her way, up the stairs and toward her waiting warm bath, likely a book, and her wine. My father barks my name from his office, and I know he’s impatiently waiting for me.
Hurrying toward the room, not wishing to be further on his bad side, I close the door behind me and make my way to the sofa before sinking down onto the leather seat. In my father’s home, in his office, we all have our places. This is my seat; Coleman’s is in the other corner of the sofa, and Hendrick leans against the wall.
“Dead men do not pay,” my dad announces.
I know exactly what he’s referring to, and I knew this would come up. I am not surprised, and I already have a response at the ready. He’s not wrong—they do not pay what they owe.
However…
“Dead men can sign over their vacation homes that are worth the same amount they owe us, though,” I state.
“Before they die, of course,” Coleman murmurs.
“Of course,” I agree.
Our dad leans back in his chair, his gaze flicking between us, then he lets out a sigh. “You two believe you’ve thought of everything, don’t you?” he asks. “But have you thought about the wife, the kids? Do you think they’ll believe he just signed everything over to you? Plus, doesn’t that look like the family had something to do with his death?”
I would laugh, except I don’t because that would be gloating, and gloating was beaten out of me when I was about fourteen years old. Being cocky is one thing. Gloating is another. The latter is forbidden. For an organization that is all about illegal activities, we have a lot of fucking rules.
“It’s already been filed with the county and country where the properties are located. The documents have been notarized,” I say.
There is a moment of silence in which my dad places his elbows on the table, his eyes searching mine. “You have done your due diligence. I appreciate that,” he murmurs.
I know there is abutcoming. I can tell by his tone. So, instead of trying to explain myself, I wait for thebutto come. And he does not disappoint. He stands and walks over to his window, and I know he is going to make a big fucking deal about this shit. I look at Coleman and roll my eyes.
He snorts right before our dad turns around, his gaze flicking between us. Hendrick is out of the equation, mainly because he was likely fucking some random bitch while this shit was going down. Plus, he’s the baby and only a leader. He doesn’t have the same kind of responsibilities or bullshit that we have to deal with.
Sometimes, I wish I could go back to being a leader. It was enough responsibility, but not too much. I liked it. The power felt good, but I knew I didn’t have too much on my shoulders. Now, it seems if I fart the wrong way, my dad is up my ass to correct it.
“But,” he continues, “I wish you would have consulted with me. Next time, I expect to have a conversation before anything permanent or irreversible is done, yes?”
Without even a blink, without even a thought, all three of us say in unison, “Yes, Director.”
This is who we are, our father’s well-trained machines. “You’re good boys,” he murmurs. “Now, the next issue at hand,” he states. “Marriage.”
I watch as Dad makes his way back to his desk to sit down before he clears his throat and arches a brow in Coleman’s direction. I almost laugh, glad to have this conversation not include me again.
Coleman groans, but Dad’s gaze snaps to his. “Andyouare fucking pissing me off about that.”
There is only a moment of silence before Coleman stands to his feet. He walks over to the desk and places his hands on the wooden top. I watch him, wondering what the fuck he’s thinking.
Nobody charges toward our father, not in anger, not in excitement, not in anything, and this man is doing it boldly, although we’re not in mixed company, so maybe that’s what has him so brave. It’s just the four of us men, no other family around to witness.
