Page 28 of Old Money

Thank you, Julian. I hope your Thanksgiving is as wonderful as you’ve made mine.

I look down at the phone with a dumb smile on my face, and suddenly, I feel like I can breathe again.

I hope you ladies eat all the turkey your hearts desire. Happy Thanksgiving, Sawyer.

I take a breath then slide out of the car. I thank the butlers for holding the door for me then the ones that take my coat. Angelina is the first to greet me, my father’s third wife. She’s two years older than me. Before they got married, my father got a vasectomy. He said three heirs was enough.

Heirs. Like it’s a fucking kingdom.

Although, in some ways, it’s even more than that.

It’s a goddamn empire.

She runs to me, swallowing me in an overly enthusiastic hug, pressing her large breasts my dad bought her last year against me. I hug her back and hand her the bottle of champagne I brought her as a gift for hosting.

Behind her, I see my idiot brothers shooting me daggers, already with beers in their hand. I thank Angelina for having us then walk past her toward them.

Keaton is the middle brother. Typical middle-child syndrome, although none of us were ever hurting for much. He’s three years my junior but, in some ways, feels so much younger than that. He’s got a chip on his shoulder because he got even less time with our parents together than I did. He works out of the West Coast offices in Santa Cruz and comes back as rarely as possible.

Brooks is the baby, known to the world as the bastard child. My father impregnated a nineteen-year-old masseuse while on a “work trip” when I was ten years old. Shortly after, he served my mom divorce papers, moved the woman from Italy to Bendmere, and married her. That marriage was even shorter than my parents’, lasting just eleven months after Brooks was born. Brooks lives in the city too, but it’s embarrassing how infrequently we see each other. My father has him paying his dues, working as a sales manager at one of our realty companies until he feels he’s sweated enough. Not that it matters much, considering we were each handed four hundred million dollars when we graduated high school.

My father did everything he could not to give Brooks’s mother, Marta, a single fucking dime. It wasn’t until Brooks got his trust fund at eighteen that he could finally repay her for all she deserved.

Both of my brothers have a chip on their shoulder about Angelina. We’ve all seen this movie before. There was a contract signed along with the prenup. An undisclosed agreed-upon amount for if and when the marriage ends that she will walk away with. Not even a dent will be made in my father’s fortune. And then the next year, the massive painted portrait above the grand fireplace will be replaced by his latest catch.

No use getting attached.

But me? They don’t bother me anymore. Once I saw what he was capable of doing to my own mother, whom I truly believed he loved at one point, I knew he could do it to anyone. I knew nothing was permanent. I’m jaded that way.

My mother died from breast cancer when I was twenty-one, right before I graduated from NYU. Otherwise, I’d be with her tonight and as far away from here as possible.

“Fucking Barbie,” Brooks says as he throws back what’s left in his bottle. I laugh as I pull him in for a hug.

“Easy there, big guy,” I say, rubbing his head playfully, even though he’s an inch taller than I am. He is the pretty brother, hands down. He’s got his mom’s Italian features: the tan skin, dark hair, full lips. But he has our father’s eyes. He makes his looks work for him too. He’s got quite the reputation as the playboy of the family. He’s the one that used to be plastered all over the tabloids, drinking too much, partying on nude beaches in Spain or Italy.

“Brooksie just isn’t used to a new mommy running around every week yet,” Keaton says. He looks like our mother. Sandy-brown hair, gray eyes, tall and slender. I laugh as I pull him in for a hug too. Keaton is the intellectual of the three of us. He’s the president of our media enterprises, but he’s also been working to develop some sort of new concierge healthcare project. He knows we’re richer than Midas. But like me, there’s a part of him that knows how wrong it is that we have four houses in a thirty-mile radius, and millions of people have none.

Me, I’m the mule. The work horse of the family. The first born, sworn to fulfill the prophecy of running the world when it’s my time. No time for my own ventures. I have Everett Enterprises to think about.

“How have you been, brother?” I ask, clapping Keaton’s shoulder as Brooks hands me a beer. “How is the West Coast?”

“Still amazing,” he says with a shrug. “You should really come out there more, if for nothing else than to get away from this fucking—hey, Pops!” he cuts himself off as Cato walks in the room. We all turn to him, and the air grows a little bit colder.

JULIAN

Cato is dressed in a perfectly tailored gray suit with no tie, shiny brown shoes—Givenchy, probably—with his hair slicked back in a perfect wave. He’s got a little bit of stubble that gives him a bit of boyish charm, and he’s still as fit as ever. My mom always said that if he never gave me anything else, at least he gave me good looks.

As much as I hate to admit it, I’m the spitting image of my dad.

He holds his hands out as Angelina appears at his side.

“My boys! God, I love it when you’re all under one roof,” he says, walking toward us with a big smile as she follows behind him like a puppy. He grabs Brooks first, kissing his cheek and hugging him.

“Hey, Dad,” Brooks says. Then Keaton.

“Hey, Pops.”

He pauses for a moment when he gets to me. He waves his hand in my face playfully. “Eh, I see you all the time. But Happy Thanksgiving, Julian,” he says as he pats my shoulder. I force a smile.

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