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1
TEMPEST
“This is beyond obscene.”
It’s Alistair who breaks the silence first, his tone lethal and menacing in the stately living room.
Usually, the honor of breaking the silence would just about always go to me and my big mouth. Because I have a tendency to “speak my mind”, as Gabriel puts it, which is…charitable of him.
The more realistic, blunter way of putting it would be that I have lots of opinions, not much of a filter, and little to no impulse control when it comes tovoicingthose opinions. But in this case, I’m too busy staring at Charles with my jaw on the floor to speak. And Gabriel is obviously too busy marshaling his thoughts into neat, organized lines, like mounted cavalry waiting for the choreographed attack on a battlefield.
It’s my brother Gabriel’s ability to word his arguments and keep his thoughts in those tidy little lines that make him one of the best lawyers in New York. And it’s myotherbrother Alistair’s ability to scare and intimidate the living shit out of people that makes him equally as formidable a legal presence.
Unfortunately, if my grandfather Charles is intimidated by Alistair and his menacing tone, he hides it well. He merely rolls his eyes as he drums his fingers on the leather armrest of his chair. His other hand raises a crystal tumbler of whiskey to the bored line of his lips. It’s barely ten in the morning, but I doubt a pesky thing like an appropriate time of day has ever once come between Charles Black and a drink.
“Precisely how would you categorize this as obsc?—”
“How about the fact that she’s fuckingeighteen!”
Me and my mouth finally join the fray. My grandfather’s mouth and jaw tighten at my profanity, which just pisses me off even more. It’s not the fact that one of his grandchildren has just sworn in front of him—my two brothers do that all the goddamn time. It’s the fact that I’m awomanand I’ve just sworn at all, period.
Because in the world of Charles Black, we all still live in 1910. Maybe even earlier. I’m not sure he even thinks women should have the right to vote, for fuck’s sakes.
“Tempest—”
“She’seighteen fucking years?—”
“I’m going to ask you once, and only once,” he snaps coldly, “to stop interrupting me.”
I almost explode at the irony of him interruptingmeto tell me to stop interruptinghim. When my angry eyes dart to the side and meet Gabriel’s, though, he gives me just the briefest and faintest shake of his head.
Pick your battles, kiddo, I can almost hear him saying.
Except a battle is clearly what Charles wanted in summoning us all here today. He could have easily told us all of this over the phone, or let us hear it directly from Maeve.
But no. Charles wanted to witness our helpless fury in person. Relish it.
Because he’s a prick like that.
“Your aunt is eighteen years old,” Charles drones, glaring at me before he sighs and pulls his gaze over first to Gabriel and then Alistair. “And I am well within my rights to make a suitable…arrangementfor her that benefits both her and the rest of this family.”
It’s a little Jerry Springer, yes, but Maeve, who is technically our aunt, just turned eighteen, making her a full six years younger than me and seventeen years younger than my brothers. Weird? Yeah. But that’s what happens when your at-the-time fifty-seven-year-old grandfather gets remarried to a twenty-year-old gold digger who in the single smartest career move of her life, almost immediately pops out a kid. And now here I am with a seventy-five-year-old grandfather, a thirty-eight-year-old step-grandmother, and an aunt who just finished high school.
Jer-ry. Jer-ry. Jer-ry…
“Might I remind you, Charles,” Gabriel murmurs quietly in that way he has. He sometimes comes across as reserved, but his quietness is never soft or weak. It’s more like the soft rattle of the wind in the branches right before the thundercloud breaks. He might take his time lining up those arguments and thoughts of his in neat little lines. But when they charge, they mean business.
“That we live firmly in twenty-first century America. And you’re honestly sitting here talking about arranged marriages.”
A small hint of a smile curls the corners of our grandfather’s lips and lifts the edges of his silvered mustache and goatee. Most people consider Charles Black a handsome, distinguished man—a man who shakes hands with governors and state senators. A man to whom the heads of the ironworkers’ and police unions owe favors. A powerbroker, of sorts.
Then again, most people don’t look past the charming mask bought with wealth and power to see the uncaring, heartless ghoul behind it.
The kind of ghoul who’sactuallyabout to sell his own eighteen-year-old daughter to the fucking mob: probably for something like first dibs on a new development project, or a cut of sanitation contract kickbacks.
Knowing Charles, it could just as easily be for box seats at a Yankees game, if he’s feeling particularly evil this week.
Whatever the reason, the reality of what he’s just told us feels like a punch to the throat. To be marrying Maeve into the Italian mafia would be horrendous enough on its own to warrant Alistair’s “obscene” comment, especially given the age difference between Maeve and her intended.
