Page 48 of Cruelest Contract
Fort scowls. “Whatever you stuck under your chair, asshole.”
Getty takes a drink of water and sets the glass down again before responding. “Keep your eyes on your own plate, kid brother. Or you might lose them.”
Fort either decides the argument isn’t worth the trouble or he’s lost interest. He shakes his head and helps himself to a second serving of food.
Meanwhile, Tye has been trying to educate me on the subject of hockey. I’ve yet to see more than thirty seconds of a game so I don’t have much to add but I’m curious about the injury that ended his career.
“You lost some of the vision in your right eye, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Some of it?” he replies, quite cheerfully. “Damn near all of it. Third period of an away game in New York. My first game back after getting sidelined for two weeks thanks to a concussion and I take a fucking stick to the eye.”
Some of Tye’s good humor fades and the shadow of anger that crosses his face is a glimpse into how swiftly his moods can change.
“The shot was a cheap one,” he says in a more solemn voice layered with fury. “At least I made him pay by cracking his head on the ice. Now neither of us plays the game anymore but he’s got a fentanyl habit and occasionally works at his father’s Long Island car wash. For now I think his daily life is punishment enough. I might change my mind.”
A glass dessert bowl containing two scoops of purple gelato garnished with fresh blackberries lands in front of me. A man’s beefy hand withdraws and I look up into the lantern-jawed face of one of the members of what Julian calls ‘the security team’. He’s probably in his thirties with an ugly scar running the length of his right cheek. As something of an expert in scars, I’d say his scar isn’t more than a year or two old.
Mostly I’ve seen Enzo’s kitchen assistant, Jory, and Mel serving the meals. But sometimes one of these grim-looking Mafia footmen gets pressed into service.
“Thank you,” I say to the ‘waiter’.
He nods and wastes no time passing out the bowls. Then he nervously glances over his shoulder before fleeing the room.
“How many employees do you have here?” I ask. “I can’t keep track.”
“Neither can I.” Tye takes a heaping spoonful of gelato and deposits it in his mouth. “You should take that question, Jul.”
“Four members of the household staff,” Julian says. “All under Mel’s direction. As you know, Miguel is the ranch foreman. He has seven full time men to manage. That numberincreases in the spring and summer. For the estate, Sonny is in charge of six permanent members of the security team and more than a dozen associates who come and go as necessary and provide backup for our assets elsewhere.”
“And you really trust them all?” I ask, carving out some gelato with my spoon.
When he doesn’t answer right away, I turn my head to find an expression I haven’t seen on him before. It’s too uncertain to be anger.
“Occasionally we find out we’ve misjudged someone,” says Fort as he intently watches his oldest brother. “Then we’ve got no choice but to let him go.”
“Effective immediately,” Getty chimes in with a grin that’s inexplicably sunny.
I get the feeling I’m being left out of an important aspect of the conversation. I’m not sure I want to know what that aspect is.
“Hey, Cecilia.” Tye pokes my forearm with a thick elbow.
When he’s got my attention, he places his dessert spoon over his left eye. His right eye squints. “I can hardly see you with just my bad eye. Test me.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” The answer is zero.
“Four,” he guesses.
“Close, but not quite.”
“Huh. Maybe if you give me something really cool to look at my condition will be cured.”
“What do you consider ‘really cool’?”
“Bet your tits would work,” he says without missing a beat. “Go ahead. It’s for science. I swear no one else will look.”
“Not true,” Fort declares. “I’ll look.”
“Shut up, junior,” Tye says.
