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I look at him, stunned. He’s never been particularly proud of his family’s history, but it’s incredible to give up so much of his considerable fortune. “What about your cousins? Won’t they fight you on this?” I ask, knowing how messy family’s get when it comes to money. Most of my family held land passed down from generation to generation, but we could only work it; no one person could sell their property. Everyone had to agree, and when you had almost two hundred people with opinions, then you got nowhere.
“They were on board from the day I suggested it. But they have no claim to this particular land. This is my and Ananias’s inheritance. The land they would have inherited now belongs to your family and their grandmother’s been wanting it back since her grandfather lost it.” He winks at me. “My brother and I never wanted this, but rather than sell it to an unethical sugar company or my family, a more unethical sugar syndicate, we decided to bring some new blood.” He pulls onto the road leading up to the main house.
“How does it work?” I ask, seeing the dozen or so nice one- and two-story houses being built.
“Every worker now has a stake in the company. And this land. Plots were given by lottery to those who work for us, with priority given to those lured or trafficked by my father and the previous foremen.” Disgust drips from his every word.
“Wow.” I touch his hand, not knowing if he’ll welcome it or not. He looks down, lacing his fingers through mine, giving me a quick squeeze before releasing me.
“We have limited space since we’ve registered with the African American History Museum to allow excavation of the land that once housed enslaved people. They are sending surveyors next summer. It should have been done before, but my father would never allow it.” We pull up to the dimly lit mansion. He looks at it grimly for a long time, his jaw working.
He turns, his eyes hot, his face furious on me. Then he gets out and comes around to my side of the car. “C’mon,” he snaps, taking me by my waist and lifting me from the car.
He walks off a little before realizing I’m still standing behind him, looking at the huge edifice. It’s hard for me to comprehend he grew up in this place.
“Nik.” Looking up into his silver gaze, then down to where his hand is open, waiting on mine, I put my hand in his. Allowing his much bigger hand to engulf mine, interlacing our fingers again. I can’t help but think this is more to anchor him than anything else.
We walk up the half a dozen wide tiered steps before landing on a wraparound porch that has huge potted plants strategically placed every few feet between settees I’m sure no one ever sits in anymore. I remember looking out my window at his gran’s house to see people milling about. All that stopped when his father died, though. I can’t remember Mathias throwing one party here.
He pushes open the twenty-foot double doors. “Welcome to the Shelby Estate, Nik.”
I step into the sheer opulence that sugar, blood, and bondage bought. The entire entrance looks like one of those châteaus in France; the floors are white marble with very thin pink veins running through them. The foyer is as huge as two of Mathias’s gran’s houses. We walk down the hallway, bypassing portraits of distinguished gentlemen, some alone and some with families and hunting dogs. In nearly every background, there is an enslaved person, sometimes a butler but most times a woman. There are many with them holding obviously biracial children along with kids I assume are Shelby heirs.
Finally we come to what must be the first Shelby portrait; it’s old and has the patina of age on the gilded edges. This man is alone, rougher than the rest. He looks like a viking with white blond hair, hard chiseled features and cold eyes. His boots are scuffed, and he has the look of someone who can and will do anything to gain wealth and power. He is sitting in a chair that his towering frame dwarfs. He has on a rough-hewn leather coat.
“Malachi Shelby, the one who started all this, a hero to some. Though truthfully, and even my bastard father would admit it, the man was a genocidal maniac. He killed every Native in this area to claim this land,” Mathias says matter-of-factly, as though without the dark looks his mother gave him notwithstanding and changing the hard Norse features for the more elegant Portuguese, he would be the man’s twin, silver eyes and all.
The man even sprawls back like Mathias does, the king of all his domain, Malachi’s big right hand sporting a huge emerald.
“The Love,” I whisper, walking closer, knowing the story like every Love—how he captured our ancestor rumored to be a princess, or maybe a thief who was caught, and took her with him back to America. He found the emerald she’d thought to use to buy her freedom by keeping it on her.
A girl who looks no older than me stands behind him. Her head is held high, her skin blacker than a thousand midnights, her hair in tight glossy coils surrounding her head. She doesn’t look broken or bowed; she looks proud. I can nice dimples like so many cousins and I share. She has the Love body. She’s dressed in a white dress and apron yet holds herself regally.
Then I notice something that nearly stops my heart; in her pocket, just barely noticeable, is a rose, and beside it are three vanilla beans. And her eyes—her eyes are burning with fire and retribution.
I get another surprise when I see the inscription:Malachi Shelby and his servant, Luvie.
“Oh my goodness,” I say, looking at the portrait that holds so many secrets, yet is telling so many more.
“What?” Mathias asks, looking at me quizzically.
“Nothing. This is just a lot,” I tell him, making myself look away from our shared family history.
“I know.” He takes my hand again, bypassing the stairs we move through to the parlor, study, and solarium, stopping when we get to the ballroom. “In the winter, when I was very little, when my father was gone, my mom would let me ride my trike in here. She said she’d been allowed to when she was little at her house. She’d grown up in a mansion much like this. Her father wanted the best for her, so when my father came, promising the world, my grandpa believed him, not knowing that the minute he married his daughter off that his days were numbered.”
“That was so cool of her. That must have been so much fun.” I try to focus on his words of love for his mother, watching his profile.
A small quirk of his lips forms as he acknowledges, “It was.” Then, a millisecond later, he says, “Until my father came back from a trip to Brazil and saw me here with my mom cheering me on and beat the ever-living shit out of her. I—I tried to stop him, and he dislocated my arm. At least that made him stop. He hit her like she was a fucking MMA fighter. And she was probably no bigger than you.” He looks down at me, his eyes a storm.
“Oh. M—”
“That’s why I couldn’t touch you after I bruised you. I’m so sorry, babe.”
Burying my head in his chest, I tell him firmly, “That’s not the same. You never hurt me. You know that.”
“I do. My mind does, but tell it to my heart.” He sounds gutted, whispering his regret in my curls.
I pull back. “You are not him.” Cupping his face, I reiterate, “Not in any way. Tell me you know that.”
