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1
Lochlan Dunne
Born and raised in the city that never sleeps, I never had trouble getting any shuteye until recently.
My family’s wealthy—has always been—so immense that it never occurred to me that anything could ever come along and wipe it out.
Then some motherfucker blew up my casino, killing twenty-two people and injuring more than a dozen others. They were innocent people with their whole fucking lives in front of them. People who came to support a fucking charity for starving children. I bet none of them were murderers.
Pulling up the footage from the security camera on my phone, I rewatch for the hundredth time the event room the day before the explosion, searching for the culprit.
Since that day, I’ve been left wondering: Why the fuck did I escape death the day it didn’t just come knocking on my door, but busting that bitch down? And why do I feel emptier and more alone in the world than ever before after getting a lucky as shit second chance? Shouldn’t I be a changed man who wants to be better? Because I don’t. If anything, I have an urge to be worse now that I may lose every penny of the Dunne family’s wealth. If my father knew the legacy that he left to me was on the brink of being wiped out, he would probably crawl out of his grave and drag me back down to hell with him.
I hate that I still care about that bastard’s opinion, even though he’s been dead for three wonderful years.
He loved to remind me that I would never have what it takes to run his empire. The only reason he left everything to me is because my younger half-brother is an even bigger fuck up.
I will literally do anything to avoid admitting that asshole was right about me. But with each day, I doubt myself a little more.
There’s a relentless black void inside of me that no amount of alcohol or debauchery can fill lately. I think it expands a little more with every shot I take, and each mediocre fuck I grit my teeth to endure. I should probably give up both vices before that emptiness swallows me up, sending me to an early grave. Twenty-six is probably too young to ruin a liver, though. That shit could take another decade at least.
Sex is still good for the rush of power it gives me, and a few seconds of oblivion, which is better than none. Afterward, I always need a strong drink to wash down the lingering flavor of bitter gold-digger. The worst are the ones who can’t play the part of being ravaged by a savage worth a shit because they’re too busy faking orgasms while deciding how to spend my dollar bills.
I’ve had to fake a few of my own Os recently. Lack of sleep and too many shots will do that to a man. Honestly, the sex lately isn’t worth the effort or aggravation. I don’t even know why I bother.
Putting my phone away since there is still no answer to my burning question, I stare out the window of the second-story office building in a daze, watching cars speed by on the early Vegas morning, racing to whatever hellhole they’re headed to. The heat is already insufferable, especially in my custom-made, Italian, three-piece suit. My white dress shirt is soaked through the pits with sweat, which means I’ll need another shower and change of clothes before lunch. A third before I eat dinner alone and then head out to the bar…
Fuck me. Maybe I’m already living in hell and am too goddamn stupid to realize it.
It’s time to change shit up.
Tonight, to hell with it. I’m not going out. I’ll go for a swim at the estate and then try to get a couple hours of sleep before I crash and burn out completely.
Finally, my attorney, Larry Warwick, slips into the conference room. The old man has been practicing law longer than I’ve been alive. “Sorry to keep you waiting. How’s the recovery?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him. A concussion and a few bruised ribs aren’t worth mentioning. And rather than waste time on more bullshit small talk, I decide to get right to the point of this meeting. “What’s going on with the lawsuits?” I ask him.
With a wince, Warwick’s shrewd eyes behind thick lenses briefly land on the Bowen knot tattooed on the right side of my face before he tells me, “I think I can get the ten most determined plaintiffs down to five hundred million.”
“Down to…are you fucking kidding me?” I ask lurching to my feet. I knew I was going to have to take one hell of a hit, but goddamn.
Warwick cringes away, but still says, “Take your anger out on me if you want, but it won’t change the fact that ten celebrities are dead, Lochlan, and everyone blames you. Their lawyers want fifty million each. That doesn’t include the total for the other twelve deceased. Then there’s the long-term care for the thirteen who were badly injured, and a half dozen traumatized employees. The liability for this type of tragedy adds up fast. So far, they won’t even give me an offer because they’re so certain they’ll win at trial.”
“Then we’ll go to trial,” I tell him.
Warwick is shaking his gray head before I finish speaking. “You really don’t want to do that. They’ve got a strong case. If you go to trial, and put this before a sympathetic jury, you’ll not only look like an even bigger asshole, but you will be bankrupted,” he explains.
Bankrupted?
“Fuck.”
“I wish I had better news, but you need to understand what’s at risk for skimping on your security.”
“Jesus.” I scrub my calloused hand down my face and retake my seat, wishing this shit was all a bad dream and hating that he’s right. I could’ve had better security in place, metal detectors, bomb-sniffing dogs, and whatever else to prevent this shit from happening, but I didn’t.
Warwick leans back in his chair, more relaxed now that I’m seated. His clasped fingers rest on his rounded stomach. “If we go to trial, I’ll need another retainer and an expense fund. My fees won’t be cheap.”
“So my options are what? Lose nearly everything with a potential settlement or go to trial with a high risk of losing every single penny?”
