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I nod. Those are all longtime employees of my father. Dedicated. Loyal. True-blue types. One percent of his liquid assets divided eight ways will be more than enough for each of them to retire and live happily ever after.
“To his children, Nicola, Burke, and Dorian, the rest of his liquid assets will be divided equally between them,” the attorney continues.
My sister sucks in a gasp, small yet audible.
I don’t waste my time or energy looking in Burke’s direction.
I don’t have to.
His shock and displeasure are radiating off him in waves so turbulent they can probably be felt in Hoboken.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “He always told us we had to be married or engaged in order to inherit anything. I’m single . . .”
Mr. Giannotti nods as he leans closer to his laptop screen. “I’m absolutely sure. In fact, I remember the day he came in here last month, wanting to change his will. He said he had a change of heart.” He slides his glasses off. “Particularly where you’re concerned, Dorian.”
I don’t understand.
Racking my mind, I think back to May—and that’s when it hits me.
Every Mother’s Day, I make sure to call my father. It’s been an unofficial tradition of ours to reminisce about my mother that day, to share the same old stories that never fail to put smiles on our faces, to honor her, to show that, although she might be gone, she could never be forgotten.
This past Mother’s Day, however, our conversation forked off in an unexpected direction. While I can’t recall exactly how it happened, I remember admitting to him that I’d met someone, that I was head over heels in love with her, that we agreed the timing was off, and that we’d wait two years to be together.
“This is absurd,” Burke chimes in. “This was never the plan. All my life, my father made it crystal clear to each of us what the expectations were.”
I steal a look at Briar, whose full lips are dancing as if she wants to say something to quell his anger. Our eyes lock, and she remains silent. She’s bright enough to know that not being one of us—yet—means it’s best if she stays out of this.
“Shall I continue?” Giannotti asks, scanning the table from end to end.
“Please,” I answer, because Nicola is apparently too stunned to speak, and nothing nice is going to come out of Burke’s mouth in the foreseeable future.
“I have a list here . . . approximately three pages’ worth of hard assets. Jewelry. Real estate. Cars. Various collections. Artwork,” he reads off. “Your father wishes for the three of you to keep the items that are priceless to you—heirlooms and such. The rest is to be auctioned off via an estate sale or private broker of your unanimous choosing. Any proceeds are to be split three ways, minus one percent, which will be allocated to the eight individuals previously mentioned.”
“I’m keeping Mom’s wedding ring,” Nicola chimes in.
“Actually . . .” Giannotti lifts his finger. “That particular item has been willed to Dorian.”
My stomach drops.
“Are you kidding right now?” Nicola’s voice rises, and she leans forward. Dash places his hand on her back, but I doubt she feels it. “Dorian doesn’t even want to get married—why should he get her ring?”
“Seriously?” Burke shoots her a deadly look from the opposite end of the table. “That’s the battle you’re choosing here? Not the fact that we did everything right, and Dorian’s making out like a bandit here?”
The paralegal beside me taps her pen against the legal pad, biting her lip as she watches the two of them bicker over something none of us have an ounce of control over.
“You don’t even like money.” Nicola directs her anger at me. “You’ve always hated being a Rothwell.”
Giannotti splays both hands in the air. “Listen, I know these situations can bring up a lot of emotions—oftentimes unpleasant ones—but if you don’t mind, I’d like to get through the remainder of this process, and then you guys can take this somewhere else. I’d let you use the conference room, but we have another client coming in after this. So. In the interest of saving everyone’s precious time, can we continue?”
“Of course,” I answer for us all.
“Natalie,” he says with a nod to the paralegal. “Did you bring the USB drives?”
She flips open the folder and reaches into an interior envelope, then produces three thumb drives, each of them white, each of them labeled with our individual initials.
“You don’t have to watch this now,” the attorney says. Thank God. “But your father recorded these messages for you the last time he was here, and it’s his wish that you have them and watch them at some point. Now, back to the division of liquid assets. As of May fifteenth, the amounts came out to approximately seventy-eight million apiece. That number is an estimate, as some of this money was held in interest-bearing savings accounts, CDs, and the like.”
