Page 7 of Married With Lies

A blast of glacial air slaps me in the face when I open the front door. Two men bundled into black overcoats pause in the middle of passing a joint. Ordinary foot soldiers keeping watch, they lower their heads and make way.

My footsteps crunch over the layer of fresh ice covering the wide flagstone driveway. Though the grounds of my uncle’s estate are crawling with loyal Amato guards I’m always in the habit of staying alert, ready to grab the holstered gun beneath my blazer at the first sign of trouble.

There’s nothing but the howl of the frigid wind and drifting snowflakes. Looking east, I can’t see a thing through the dense hedgerows bordering my uncle’s property but the faint notes of Christmas music would indicate the Wingates’ annual party is in full swing.

Behind the wheel of my Porsche I flip on the heat and take a minute to stew over my uncle’s latest scheme.

Marriage.

No fucking way.

Marriage isn’t on my mind, never has been. Next year will be my thirty-fifth birthday and by now I know how to find some entertainment when the mood strikes. I can’t guess what kind of woman would turn my head enough to lock it all down but if I haven’t found her yet I’m probably not going to, which suits me just fine.

My uncle’s motivations are clear. An alliance for sure, but also a way to keep me close. If I cooperate then I’ll be one step closer to becoming the successor to his blood-soaked throne.

He’d never suspect that I’d much rather clean truck stop toilets on the Jersey Turnpike than take anything from him.

With the car still in park mode, my foot slowly sinks down on the gas pedal. The engine pitches a satisfying roar that’s sure to be heard within the house. Richie is probably frowning in his seat at the head of the dining room table as he stuffs his chubby cheeks full of Aunt Donna’s lasagna.

I shift to drive and ease into motion slowly. The wheels slip over the thick layer of ice. It would be nice to get out of town for a few days, go somewhere warm and think about my next move.

Refusing my uncle flat out is sure to rouse suspicion. There’s a solution to this problem. I just have to find it.

But as I coast the short distance to the gaudy mansion next door, I’ve made up my mind.

If I’m going to be required to stand up and repeat some vows it will be on my fucking terms and no one else’s.

2

CALE

The Wingate mansion is something of a historic landmark, the oldest sprawling eyesore on this piece of Long Island’s north shore. A fitting home for assholes who think of themselves as American royalty.

“Your keys, sir?” The shivering valet awaits with an outstretched hand in order to add my car to the sea of vehicles cluttering both sides of the street.

I won’t be staying long so I wave him off in the driveway and yank a hundred dollar bill out of my pocket to slide into his palm. Anyone might think that tipping would be magnificent at a party like this but I know the brand of rich people here. Careless and stingy.

The place is crawling with hired security. The pair who stand in front of the door must be part of Asher Wingate’s personal staff. When I point to the neighboring Amato estate, the muscled suit on the right visibly blanches before stepping aside. The mammoth front door is thrown open and before I take two steps a tray of champagne flutes is pushed under my nose.

I’m not interested in champagne and tonight I won’t be searching for something more hardcore. Alcohol does nothing but eat the sharp edges of a man’s senses and most of the time I’m not a fan of sacrificing my wits for shit that tastes like motor oil.

To my left, a woman shrieks with laughter and stumbles in her heels. There are famous and semi-famous faces in every direction. Politicians and actors and pro athletes.

Wading through this perfumed crowd leaves me ready to break out in hives. I’d much rather be back in the city, enjoying the solitude of my Manhattan loft and brooding over the best way to extricate myself from my uncle’s rotten marriage scheme.

It's weird to be in this house again. I used to spend a lot of time here. The colossal crystal chandelier dangling from the cavernous ceiling once hung in a Russian palace. Or maybe it was a French palace. One day Baylor threw an apple at it just to see what would happen. When a couple of shards broke off he was grounded for a month.

To my right, an enormous Christmas tree stretches nearly to the ceiling. It could easily kill a dozen people if it topples over right now. Nearby, a man-sized nutcracker watches me with static painted eyes. For some reason I have the urge to flip him off.

So far I have yet to encounter a member of the Wingate family and I’m avoiding eye contact with everyone else. The house hasn’t changed much. The walls of the long corridor are still lined with Asher Wingate’s priceless art collection. At the moment the paintings are all covered to protect them from damage by tipsy guests but I cut loose with a snort of laughter now that I remember how Bay once drew a Sharpie mustache on one of the Renoirs. When his father threw a fit and had to send the paining off to a professional art restorer, Baylor laughed and said to take the cost out of his inheritance. That’s what he was like back then. Rude. Rebellious. Fun.

Then again, I used to be a lot of things too.

Eventually, Baylor skipped off to his destiny. And I’ve grown to grimly accept mine.

Asher Wingate’s deep baritone carries from another room. “This is OUR year. That Stanley Cup is coming back here where it belongs.”

A cheer goes up from all the hockey fans. This hits in a weird way. My dad was a huge hockey fan. There was a time when I was a capable player on the ice and had a few thoughts on going pro someday. These days I rarely make time to catch more than ten minutes of a game.

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