Page 147 of Cruelest Contract
Sonny’s eyes narrow and he glares at the door. “When do those assholes leave?”
“You can count on them being here for a couple of days at least. You searched them thoroughly, right?”
“Hell yes,” he says. “That Angelo fucker got a hell of an attitude when I looked through his luggage and took of all his metal away. He finally shut his mouth when I offered to break both his arms to give him something different to worry about.”
“And Gabriel?”
Sonny shrugs. “He was more agreeable. He threw his brother a warning glare and said they aren’t here to cause any trouble. They just want to spend Christmas with their sister.”
I’ve got plenty of reasons to refuse to give the Grimaldi brothers the benefit of the doubt. Not the least of these is the fact that we’ve recently humiliated them by shutting them out of their own turf.
Still, they are weak and not even Matthias is on their side. They have neither the means nor the balls to go after us on any level. If anything, the Grimaldis are here to kiss ass and they’ll be pleading for jobs before their visit is over.
But I won’t bother to deny that I can’t wait to see them leave. What I really need is for everything and everyone to fucking disappear for a little while so I can concentrate on my wife.
My wife, who is pregnant with our twins.
My wife, who is under the impression that I don’t love her.
Hearing Cecilia say this upstairs in the nursery knocked the wind out of me. Every minute since then is like staggeringthrough some nightmarish movie that I wrote and directed but hate with a burning passion.
With my mind frayed and wandering, I dimly hear my father tell Sonny to stand down long enough to attend dinner in the dining room. Everyone left on the ranch is invited.
From the way Sonny shifts his weight with a constant frown, it’s clear he isn’t too thrilled about this plan but he can’t argue with the boss.
I’m fleetingly bothered by this. Sonny isn’t easily spooked. If he thinks there’s a possibility the security system was sabotaged, his instincts should be taken seriously.
The windows in my father’s office are uncovered and I can see the blizzard is still going strong even as the sky darkens. No roads will be plowed out here until the snow stops falling. The ranch should be inaccessible right now for anyone who is not already here.
“You never wanted to fall in love and you knew you could never love me.”
No matter how I try to redirect my thoughts, I keep coming back to that moment with Cecilia. She believes this because I made her believe it. I plotted and manipulated my way to the life I wanted and congratulated myself for predicting Cecilia’s every need. I’ve been obsessed with protecting my wife and yet I’ve shamefully neglected her heart and her feelings.
Now Cecilia believes she’s nothing but a trophy or a credential. A box for me to check off. A brick in my fucking empire, like Matthias said.
“Julian.” My father’s sharp voice expels these tormented thoughts.
“I agree,” I say, not entirely sure what I’ve just agreed to. And not especially caring either.
Sonny raises an eyebrow and exchanges a glance with my father. These two men have known each other for decades and they’re able to communicate a lot with one look.
“Sonny,” my father says, his eyes still on me, “since we’re shorthanded, would you mind helping get the dining room ready for dinner?”
“Sure,” Sonny says and heads for the door. He’s got his hand on the knob when he turns around. “I’d suggest to everyone to keep your hardware close and fully loaded. Just in case.”
There’s a bottle sitting out and it looks like my father has already helped himself to a few shots today. I don’t see another shot glass so I just use his.
Sonny shuts the door behind him and my father watches me pour bourbon down my throat. The harsh burn immediately brings me back to my wedding night. This is the same brand as the bottle I took to bed with my wife.
I consider having a second shot and decide against it. Getting shit-faced helps nothing.
After setting the bottle and glass down where I found them, I raise my eyes to my mother’s painting. Winter nights come early and the room grows dimmer by the second.
“I’m sorry,” I say and my voice shakes. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Julian.” My father moves to stand in front of me and peers into my eyes with uncharacteristic alarm. “What in the hell do you think you’ve got to be sorry about? You’ve been the perfect son.”
We should have discussed this many years ago. Instead it’s just been this forbidden fact that grows more malignant.
