Page 7 of Devil In A Suit

On my sixteenth birthday my father gifted me twenty percent of his stock portfolio to manage. Legally, I couldn’t drink or drive, so it was an incredible show of trust and I was determined not to disappoint him. I studied the market carefully for six months, then I moved the entire twenty percent into five unconventional tech stocks. It was a risk, but a calculated one. In one and a half years I had tripled the portion I controlledwhile my father’s main portfolio, managed by experts in London, showed a six and a half percent increase.

He called me to his study.

It was seven in the evening so there were dinner guests gathered in the music room. A pianist was playing Rachmaninoff as I passed by. The world outside my father’s palace was covered in deep snow as it was in the dead of winter, but his study was warm and smelled of burning wood and sweet tobacco. I opened my mouth to greet him, but he raised a finger to motion for me to wait. He rose from behind his desk and filled two glasses from a bottle of vodka that was specially distilled for him in Bavaria. I could hear the logs crackling and spitting in the big fireplace as he raised his glass.

“Congratulations, my son,” my father said and his voice shook. In the firelight his eyes shone with so much pride and love, my heart swelled in my chest.

Even though I was only eighteen, he let me keep the entire profit. It was that million and a half that became the foundation stone of my wealth. The castle in Scotland, the chateau in Nice, the one-hundred-and-thirty-foot yacht parked in Monaco, the planes, the garages full of flashy cars, the priceless art collection, the watches, even the Saville Row tailored suits on my back… everything can be traced back to my father’s decision to not only trust me with so much his wealth but to then let me keep that first profit.

I wonder what my life would have been if he had not done that for me.

Now, as I stand before the floor-length mirror in my closet, I feel hollow and unsatisfied. Almost disappointed. Is this it? Where did the pride and love of that winter evening go? Never since that evening, have I felt the wonderful pure emotion my father and I shared. Infected by the lure of easy wealth, I havebecome a creature of the stock market; a pitiless, merciless money-making machine.

My heart is frozen.

There is no one I can trust not to betray me if the price is right. There is no one I love. And no one who loves me. There are no children to tuck into a warm bed. What I have are acquaintances and mutually beneficial relationships. They do something for me and I pay them for their service. As such they care nothing for me. And neither would I expect them to.

The hard cold truth is: I am alone with my money. And that is fine. My money will buy me any little compulsive liar I desire for as long as I want. Lara Fitzpatrick’s image appears in my head. She is an unsophisticated nobody working for a failed estate agency, but something about her compels me to have her.

I’ve gone over it many times in my head.

Why her?

What is so special about her?

Her Irish heritage is clear from her milky skin, blazing blue eyes, and thick dark hair that she tames into a ponytail high on her head, but there is something fierce and tempestuous about her beauty. As if she belongs on a windswept moor, her hair running loose and wild behind her. And yet she wears her feral beauty carelessly. The way that a lone leopard sitting on a bare tree branch with a glorious sunset behind it does. So beautiful it wins its photographer a prestigious award, but it is totally unaware of its own exquisiteness.

To be honest, the craving for her astonishes me. My life is littered with beautiful available women, but there has never been one I simply had to have. Every one of them I could have easily turned away from and found an equally acceptable substitute for.

Not her.

There is no acceptable substitute for Lara Fitzpatrick. She is like a storm brewing in the sky. You can rage and rail against it, but there is no way to stop it. Already, I can feel my skin crackling with electricity. It is exciting and thrilling, but only a fool will not recognize that such a relentless hunger must be quickly attended to and completely purged or everything else will become meaningless.

I select a blue striped tie and begin to knot it.

In the mirror, my eyes glitter with excitement. I am really looking forward to this… negotiation. More than I have looked forward to anything for a very, very long time. Miss Fitzpatrick doesn’t know it yet, but there is a service she can provide for me and in return, she will get what everyone wants from me. A nice chunk of money. A fair exchange. I will keep her until I get bored of her… a month should be more than sufficient. Then we will part ways and never meet again. That is my way. The way of a lone wolf.

I run a brush through my hair, grab my jacket, and head downstairs.

“Good morning, Sir. Breakfast is ready. Shall I serve it?” Muriel, my English housekeeper asks from the bottom of the stairs. She is wearing her customary black dress, and not a hair of her short iron-gray hair is out of place. Her face is, as always, stoic and expressionless. She is nearly four feet nine inches tall, but she is irreplaceable in my household. No matter where in the world I go, if I’m staying more than two weeks, she comes with me.

"Not today, Muriel," I throw over my shoulder as I stride towards the front door.

I hear the sound of her hard black shoes hurrying after me. "Will you be home for lunch then, Sir?" she asks just as the door is pulled open by one of my two bodyguards.

"No, but tell the Chefs to put a little more effort into dinner. I have a feeling I'll be particularly famished by then."

"Very well, Sir," she replies and steps back with a solemn nod.

I slip into the faintly perfumed backseat of my Rolls Royce. Vivaldi’s Winter is playing softly in the background.

“Turn it up,” I say to Nikolai and he meets my gaze in the mirror and turns up the volume. “More,” I say until the whole car is vibrating with the sound of violins.

I have to admit that it feels good, really good, to be exhilarated about something. I haven’t felt this alive for years. And so, I allow myself to look forward to meeting Miss Fitzpatrick. Perhaps she will be completely underwhelming to meet, and all of this time and effort would have been for nothing. If so, I will go back to wanting Muriel’s breakfasts and expanding my blood, sweat, and tears to making money I don’t need.

Chapter Five

LARA

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