Page 2 of Ashes of Saints

It was our therapy.

I wouldn’t mind turning back time, rolling up my sleeves, bouncing on the balls of my feet and saying (with a wiggle of my fingers) come and get me, you piece of shit. Then beating whoever was a willing victim until my fist, and their face, was bloody.

The trouble is, the person I’m angry with is my father, David Stone. He’s deceased.

Dead.

Six feet under.

Nothing more than a skeleton whose flesh has been munched away at by bugs for years.

I like remembering him like that. It’s a much happier memory than when he was alive. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. The memories of my childhood live on inside of me, keeping me full of rage and hate.

I was exposed to a dark evil that no child should have to experience. Delivered to the people who harmed me by the very man who was responsible for protecting me.

He didn’t.

I’m almost certain he was paid, although I don’t recall seeing it. But my father never participated. Not that I saw. Here’s an interesting thing about memories. The brain is clever—it doesn’t retain things it finds traumatic. It simply says, huh, that was fucking horrible. Throw it out and don’t remember it.

Simply put.

So, I don’t remember certain things.

But I remember enough. I remember the fear, the feelings, the knowledge that this shouldn’t be happening.

Worse, my body remembers, like it has a memory of its own.

Some days, when I feel triggered, it’s the not knowing that terrifies me the fucking most. I want to remember so I can feel in control despite it happening over twenty years ago. Instead, I’m sitting here smoking another fucking cigar, planning revenge.

I got lucky though. When I was sent to at Phillips Academy—a boarding school for rich kids—I met Maddox, Travis, Zayne, and Killian.

We bonded fast and over time learned we’d experienced similar childhoods. All of us have a dark tale to tell and desire to get even with those who hurt us.

My father decided to die, the fucking coward.

But I’m not sad that my path led me to my friends. The Alliance was formed, and we created a code to live by, which was sealed in a blood pact.

Strength in silence: revenge is a patient man’s game. We act in the shadows and never reveal our hand too soon.

Now the Alliance Club is an adult-only club owned by Travis, located at one of his high-end, exclusive golf clubs in New York City. A place we frequent almost every weekend to catch up...and fuck women.

We’re honest men, not good men.

All five of us are busy, successful billionaires, running businesses. In my case, I buy failing companies that I see potential in. Then pull them apart and put them back together again so they’re sustainable.

I’ve made a lot of money, but not a lot of friends in the process. The media loves to make me the bad guy for taking people’s jobs while I shake out the cobwebs and problems. What these noisy fuckers (aka journalists—I’m not a fan) fail to understand is that the redundant jobs wouldn’t exist if the company completely collapsed.

What part of failing business do people not understand?

It’s no different from your own bank account. When money runs out, there’s no more to employ people.

No money.

No job.

Fuck, it melts my brain to have to keep explaining this over and goddamn over.

So, I take these companies and make the changes the original owners or executives should’ve made in the first place and make them profitable. Then—louder for the people in the back—start hiring when the budget allows.

---