“First of all, as I mentioned not two seconds ago, I have no conscience. Second, whatever happens to you is on you and the complete and utter buffoon you married. I’m not another item on your pile of bad decisions.”
“Marrying Paxton wasn’t a bad decision. I married for love.”
This sounded pathetic, even to my own ears, but I wanted him to know. To know I hadn’t been twiddling my thumbs, pining for him all those years.
“All middle-class girls do.” He checked the time on the hourglass. “Very uninspiring.”
“Cillian,” I said softly. “You’re my only hope.”
Other than him, my only option was to disappear. Run away from my family and friends, from everything I knew, loved, and cherished.
From the life I’d built for the past twenty-six years.
He adjusted the tie clasped under his waistcoat.
“Here’s the thing, Persephone. As a matter of principle, I do not give anything away without getting something back. The only thing separating myself and that loan shark who’s after you is a privileged upbringing and opportunity. I, too, am not in the business of handing out free favors. So unless you tell me what, exactly, I could gain for the one hundred thousand dollars you’re asking me to kiss goodbye, I’m going to turn you down. You have ten seconds, by the way.”
I stood there, cheeks ablaze, eyes burning, every muscle in my body taut as a bowstring. A cold shiver ran down my back.
I wanted to scream. To lash out. To collapse on the floor in cinders. To claw his eyes out and bite and wrestle him and…and do things I never wanted to do to anyone, my enemies included.
“Five seconds.” He tapped the hourglass. His snake-like eyes sparkled in amusement. He was enjoying this. “Give me your best offer, Penrose.”
Did he want me to give him my body?
My pride?
My soul?
I wouldn’t do that. Not for Byrne. Not for him. Not for anyone.
The remaining seconds dripped like life leaving Auntie Tilda’s body.
His finger hit a red button on the side of his desk.
“Have a nice life, Flower Girl. Whatever’s left of it, anyway.”
He swung his chair to the window, documents in hand, ready to return to his work. The glass door behind me burst open, and two brawny men in suits stomped in, each grabbing me by an arm to drag me outside.
Casey waited by the elevator bank with her arms crossed and shoulder propped over the wall, her cheeks flushed with humiliation.
“It’s not every day security takes out the trash. Guess there’s a first time for everything.” She flipped her hair, cackling like a hyena.
I spent the entire bike ride to North End fighting back the tears.
My last and only chance just went up in flames.
CILLIAN
“We’re pregnant.”
Hunter made the announcement at the dinner table. I wanted to wipe his shit-eating grin with a disinfectant.
Or my fist.
Or a bullet.
Breathe, Kill. Breathe.
His wife, Sailor, rubbed her flat stomach. Generally speaking, she was about as maternal as a chewable thong, so I wasn’t quite sure any of these idiots were capable of taking care of anything more complex than a goldfish.
“Eight weeks in. Still early, but we wanted to let you know.”
I kept my expression blank, cracking my knuckles under the table.
Their timing couldn’t have been worse.
Mother darted from her seat with an ear-piercing squeak, throwing her arms over the happy couple to smother them with kisses, hugs, and praises.
Aisling went on and on about how being an aunt was a dream come true, which would have alarmed me about her life goals if it wasn’t for the fact she was about to finish med school and start her residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. Athair shook Hunter’s hand like they’d signed a lucrative deal.
In a way, they had.
Gerald Fitzpatrick made it perfectly clear he expected heirs from his sons. Spawns to continue the Fitzpatrick legacy. I was the first in line, the eldest Fitzpatrick, and therefore was burdened with the mission not only to produce successors but to also ensure one of them was a male who would take the reins of Royal Pipelines, regardless of his love for business and/or capabilities.
If I hadn’t had children, the title, power, and fortune would all be given to the offspring next in line to the throne. Hunter’s kid, to be exact.
Athair—father in Irish Gaelic—gave his daughter-in-law an awkward pat on the back. He was big—in height, width, and personality—with a shock of silver hair, onyx eyes, and pale skin.
“Great job there, sweetheart. Best news we’ve had all year.”
I checked my pulse discreetly under the table.
It was under control. Barely.
Everyone’s heads turned to me. Ever since my father stepped down and appointed me as the CEO of Royal Pipelines less than a year ago, I’d been bumped up to the leader of the pack and took the seat at the head of the table during our weekend dinners.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Mother played with her pearl necklace, smiling tightly.
I raised my tumbler of brandy. “To more Fitzpatricks.”
“And to the men who make them.” Athair downed his liquor in one go. I met his jab with a frosty smirk. I was thirty-eight—eleven years Hunter’s senior—unmarried, and childless.
Marriage was very low on my to-do list, somewhere under amputating one of my limbs with a butter knife and bungee jumping sans a rope. Children weren’t an idea I was fond of. They were loud, the boring kind of dirty, and needy. I had been postponing the inevitable. Marrying had always been the plan because producing heirs and paying my dues to the Fitzpatrick lineage wasn’t something I’d dreamed of worming out of.
Having a family was a part of a bigger plan. A vision. I wanted to build an empire far bigger than the one I’d inherited. A dynasty that stretched across much more than the oil tycoons we currently were.
However, I had every intention of doing it in my late forties and with stipulations that would make most women run for the hills and throw themselves off said hills for good measure.
Which was why marriage had been off the table.
Until this week, when my friend and lawyer, Devon Whitehall, urged me to get hitched to douse some of the flames directed at Royal Pipelines and myself.
“Well, Athair,” I said tonelessly, “I’m happy Hunter exceeded your expectations in the heir-producing department.” The writing was on the wall, smeared in my brother’s semen from that time he dragged us all through PR hell with his sex tape.
“You know, Kill, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” Sailor shot me a piercing glare, taking a sip of her virgin Bloody Mary.
“If you were a selective conversationalist, you wouldn’t marry a man who thinks fart jokes are the height of comedy,” I fired back.
“Farts are the height of comedy.” Hunter, who was only half-evolved as a human, jabbed a finger in the air. “It’s science.”
Most days, I doubted he was literate. Still, he was my brother, so I had a basic obligation to tolerate him.
“Congratulations would have been sufficient.” Sailor poked the air with her fork.
“Bite me.” I downed my brandy, slamming the glass on the table.
“Dear!” Mother gasped.
“You know there’s a term for people like you, Kill,” Sailor grinned.
“Cunts?” Hunter deadpanned, pressing two fingers to his lips and dropping an invisible mic to the floor. One of the help poured two fresh fingers of brandy into my empty tumbler. Then three. Then four. I did not motion for her to stop until the alcohol nearly sloshed over.
“Language!” Mother threw another random word in the air.
“Yup. I speak at least two fluently—English and profanity.” Hunter cackled.
He also used the word “fuck” as a unit measurement (as fuck), engaged in grotesque carnage of the English language (“be seein’ ya,” “me thinks”) and up until marrying Sailor, had provided the family with enough scandals to outdo the Kennedys.
I, however, avoided sacrilege of any kind, held babies at public events (reluctantly), and had always been on the straight and narrow. I was the perfect son, CEO, and Fitzpatrick.
With one flaw—I wasn’t a family man.
This made the media have monthly field days. They dubbed me Cold Cillian, highlighted the fact I enjoyed fast cars and wasn’t a member of any charities, and kept running the same story where I rejected an offer to be on the cover of a financial magazine, sitting next to other world billionaires, because none of them, other than Bezos, was anywhere near my tax bracket.
“Close, honey.” Sailor patted Hunter’s hand. “Sociopaths. We call people like your brother sociopaths.”
“That makes so much sense.” Hunter snapped his fingers. “He really breathes new death into the room.”
“Now, now.” Jane Fitzpatrick, aka Mother Dearest, tried to calm the discussion. “We’re all very excited about the new addition to the family. My very first grandchild.” She clasped her hands, looking dreamily into the distance. “Hopefully one of many.”
So rich, for someone who had the maternal instinct of a squid.
“Don’t worry, Ma, I intend to impregnate my wife as many times as she’ll let me.” Hunter winked at his ginger bride.
My brother was the poster child for TMI. And possibly pubic lice.
The only thing stopping me from throwing up in my mouth at this point was that he wasn’t worth wasting food over.
“Gosh, I’m so jealous, Sail! I can’t wait to be a mother.” Ash balanced her chin on her fist, letting out a wistful sigh.
“You’ll make a wonderful mom.” Sailor reached over the table to squeeze her hand.
“To your imaginary kids with your brother-in-law.” Hunter threw a sautéed bite of potato into his mouth, chewing. Ash went crimson. For the first time since dinner began, I was faintly amused. My sister nurtured a hopeless obsession with Sam Brennan, Sailor’s older brother and a guy who worked for me on retainer.
The fact she was a wallflower and he was a modern-day Don Corleone didn’t faze her in the least.
“What about you, mo òrga?” Athair turned to me. My nickname meant My Golden in Irish Gaelic. I was the proverbial modern Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold. Shaped and molded in his hands. Although, judging by the fact I’d given him nothing but bad press ever since I inherited the CEO position, I wasn’t sure the moniker was fitting anymore.
It wasn’t about my performance. There wasn’t a soul in Royal Pipelines who could surpass me in skill, knowledge, and instincts. But I was a soulless, impersonal man. The opposite of the patriarch people wanted to see at the head of a company that killed rainforests and robbed Mother Nature of her natural resources on a daily basis.
“What about me?” I cut my salmon into even, minuscule pieces. My OCD was more prominent when I was under pressure. Doing something ritually gave me a sense of control.
“When will you give me grandchildren?”
“I suggest you direct this question at my wife.”
“You don’t have a wife.”
“Guess I won’t be having children anytime soon, either. Unless you’re impartial to ill-conceived bastards.”
“Over my dead body,” my father hissed.
Don’t tempt me, old man.
“When are you announcing the pregnancy publicly?” Athair turned to Hunter, losing interest in the subject of my hypothetical offspring.
“Not before the end of the second trimester,” Sailor supplied, laying a protective hand over her stomach. “My OB-GYN warned me the first trimester is the rockiest. Plus, it’s bad luck.”
“But a good headline for Royal Pipelines.” Father stroked his chin, contemplating. “Especially after the Green Living demonstration and the idiot who managed to break both her legs. The press was all over that story.”
I was tired of hearing about it. Like Royal Pipelines had anything to do with the fact a dimwit had decided to climb up my grandfather’s statue on the busiest square in Boston with a megaphone and fell.
Athairhelped himself to a third serving of honey-baked salmon, his three chins vibrating as he spoke.
“Ceann beag has been the media’s darling for the past couple of years. Nice, hard-working, approachable. A reformed playboy. Maybe he should be the face of the company for the next few months until the headlines blow over.”
Ceann beagmeant little one. Even though Hunter was the middle child, my father had always treated him as the youngest. Perhaps because Ash was wise beyond her years, but more than likely because Hunter had the maturity of a Band-Aid.
I put my utensils down, fighting the twitch in my jaw while slipping my hands under the table to crack my knuckles again.
“You want to put my twenty-seven-year-old brother as the head of Royal Pipelines because he managed to impregnate his wife?” I inquired, my voice calm and even. I’d busted my ass at Royal Pipelines since my early teens, taking my place at the throne at the cost of having no personal life, no social life, and no meaningful relationships. Meanwhile, Hunter was jumping from one mass orgy to the next in California until my dad dragged him by the ear back to Boston to clean up his act.
“Look, Cillian, we’ve been facing a lot of backlash because of the refinery explosion and exploratory Arctic drills,” Athair groused.
Cillian. Not mo òrga.