Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Mom pastes a smile on her face. Caius doesn’t bother. We all know that a few years ago, these people would have wiped their feet on us. None of us will ever forget that.
A man approaches, and I get the feeling he was waiting for us. Well, for Mom, when I see how he looks at her.
“Evelyn.” He takes her hand, leans in to kiss her cheeks. “You look lovely.”
My hackles go up. They know each other, obviously, but that’s not too surprising. She’s been doing charity work for years, and the last few months, it’s been centered in Avarice. But there’s something in his look that’s not right. She is still a married woman even if her husband is on his deathbed.
I study him. He’s younger than Dad, and a hell of a lot healthier.
“Lawrence, you remember my son, Caius.” Caius and Lawrence shake hands as if they have already met. “And this is Santos, Brutus’s son.” Odd introduction, I think, but I extend my hand. “Santos, this is Dr. Lawrence Cummings. He’s one of the members who founded the original club.”
Ah. So we have history. I recall now how Dad talked about Lawrence Cummings.
“Dr. Cummings,” I say, shaking his hand because it would be too awkward not to.
“Brutus’s son,” he says and openly looks me over. “I can see it.”
What an asshole. “Dad mentioned you a time or two. I didn’t realize you’d kept your membership.”
He clears his throat, then glances at Mom. “We worked it out. How is your father?”
“Fine,” I say flatly, my expression daring him to say another word to me.
“Yes, good to hear,” he says awkwardly before turning to my mother. “May I escort you inside, Evelyn?” Lawrence holds out an arm.
“Thank you, Lawrence,” she says, and I don’t like it. I don’t like the tone of it. I don’t like the familiarity, the ease with which they walk a little too closely, if you ask me.
I look over to Caius to find him watching too. His expression matches mine. “What’s that about?”
Caius takes a breath in and shrugs a shoulder. “Mom doing her part for the family, I guess.”
“You know who he is?”
Caius nods.
“I don’t like him.”
“Join the club,” he says, then pats my back. “Although I guess you own it.”
“We own it,” I clarify. Fuck. My conversation with Dad replays. Caius can’t know about the change to the will, can he?
“Fine, brother. Let’s go in. I need a drink.”
We enter the mansion that houses the club, and if the gardens were impeccable, this is something else entirely. Soft music and the hum of conversation and laughter spill from the ballroom as we enter. My brother and I stop to take in every detail from the chandeliers that cast soft golden light from above to the sconces that flicker along the richly paneled walls. Tables that have been draped in the finest linens and set with so much silver and crystal it’s almost blinding. Not to mention the flower arrangements that must cost more than most people earn in a year.
Well, not these people. Ordinary people.
My mother is a few steps ahead of us. She laughs at something someone says. Caius walks toward the nearest bar and returns a moment later with a club soda for me and a whiskey for himself.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Bunch of pretentious pricks if you ask me,” Caius says. We’re watching our mother being introduced to a group by Cummings. There’s a delay before the smiles appear and those smiles aren’t quite welcoming, not quite warm. Fucking elitists. Sometimes I wonder why Dad wanted this. Why want to be a part of something that doesn’t want you?
Although that’s hypocritical.
“Caius,” our mother turns to beckon my brother, who downs his drink and pastes a smile on his face. “Come meet…” her voice fades out because, as if fate heard my thoughts, my attention is drawn to the far corner of the room. It’s not a movement or anything I can put my finger on that catches my eye. I’m simply drawn to look.
It’s her, Madelena De Léon in the flesh. This particular charity is for mental health, a charity her mother was involved in when she was alive. Understandable. Her father has kept it going in her memory.
Madelena is seated on a chaise lounge, and as I watch, she takes something out of her clutch, a bottle of aspirin or something. She pops two into her mouth then, half turning away from the room, brings a flask to her lips and quickly swallows those pills with several gulps of what I’m sure is not water. She slips the flask back into her clutch and turns back to the room. She teeters when she stands, taking a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray. I sharpen my focus. What were those pills, and how much has she already drank, I wonder.