Page 63 of The Finish Line

Age Twenty-Four

Parlay.

I read somewhere it takes three lines of solid income to make a man rich, six to make a man sustainably wealthy. Between the last few years of keeping tabs anonymously online—due to Dom’s help—as campus bookie at HEC, the scraps of profit I take from Antoine’s legitimate business deals, my cut of white-collar crimes my brother has spearheaded, and the fluctuating income from the garage—that makes four.

A rich man, I’m not. And sustainably wealthy is where I need to be.

As of late, we give almost as much as we take to keep our consciences clean and our hands heavy with loyalty. We’re gaining strength in numbers, but it’s not enough. Money and stature are the last hurdles I need to clear to get myself into a position to take Roman down.

With my masters earned from one of the best business schools in the world—as soon as I have the capital to start my company—I can declare war on my unsuspecting nemesis.

So, parlay, it is.

Today’s the day, and I’ve been on this board far too long.

It all comes down to a wildly expensive bet. A gamble capable of setting me free of being a slave or victim to any other man’s whims.

At this point, I stand to lose as much as I gain, having paid as much for the intel as I have to gamble with, but that’s the nature of the beast. Money has always been an obstacle for me, a necessary means of getting from point A to point B. And while some men let it drive them, let the abundance or lack of it corrupt or destroy them, I refuse to become a slave to it. Instead, I’ll obtain enough of it to wield its power, its sway, to open avenues and help level the playing field for men like me and my brothers, our parents, and whomever else’s fate rests in the hands of men like Roman Horner.

With the clip of the price tag, I’m ushered into the jacket, the last stroke of the brush on the picture I’m intent on painting. Giving myself a once-over in the floor-length mirror, I school my features to hide my excitement as the tailor looks on, brushing the shoulders of my jacket.

“Not bad for a poor mixed breed who grew up in a dilapidated shithole in Nowhere, North Carolina.”

With the furrow of his brows, it’s clear my words are lost on the tailor who speaks little English, but he nods in agreement to please me. “Cela vous va très bien.” It suits you.

Sorting through the bills from my pocket, I tip him and move to step off the pedestal. He stills me, kneeling and running a mildly soiled cloth along the top of my shoes. When I pull out another bill in gratitude, he waves it away, and I nod in thanks. “Merci.”

Making my way out to my waiting car, I light a cigarette and inhale deep, exhaling some of the threatening stress of the morning. Surveying the daybreak sky, I spot a flock of birds flying low in the milky clouds, wings extended in perfect formation, mimicking each other’s flight pattern, a silent communication amongst them along the wind. The sight of it makes me envious.

This. This is what was missing in the order back home.

Frères du Corbeau (Brothers of the Raven) was my stepfather’s pipe dream. A dream to lead the revolt against the greedy leaders of corporate America—namely Roman Horner—to fight for the good of the common man.

The idea was good, but there was too much miscommunication amongst them—along with too many opposing beliefs and ideas about how to proceed in taking him down. And not one of them, my papa included, had enough backbone to move in any direction. They never could get it together enough to evoke any real change or take action against those who continually fucked them, especially Roman. The only person in that group who had any real gumption to carry out anything was Delphine, but she dulled her razor’s edge with the drink over time.

It all comes down to my brothers and me.

I refuse to indulge in a poison of any kind that will dull my edge.

Whether it be drink or a woman, or any other threatening vice, I’m determined to abstain. I refuse to let any personal or frivolous need weaken me. When I think of the bigger picture, it’s much easier to maintain.

I can make Papa’s dream a reality while seeking justice and ending Roman, or I can backslide like the rest of the originals, becoming useless, another voice in the void.

Throughout the years I’ve been in France, I thought it a possibility on more than one occasion that I would fail. That this whole thing was pointless. But doubt breeds insecurity, and insecurity chips away at confidence, and I have no fucking room for it. It’s time for bold moves. It’s time for execution.

With that needed mental clarity, I slide into the back seat after my borrowed driver opens the door, mildly surprised to see his boss waiting for me. The driver, Luis, gives me an apologetic glance before leaving me with Antoine, who does nothing to mask the smug pleasure on his face.

I should have seen this coming.

“Allais-tu m’informer de tes projets aujourd’hui, Ezekiel?” Were you ever going to inform me of your plans today, Ezekiel?

I tug the cuff of my shirt. “My plans today don’t include you.”

“I could have helped.”

“As I’ve told you, repeatedly, I don’t need your help.”

“But you borrow my car, my driver?”

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