Savage Sinners (Elites of Macedon High 3)

Chapter Fourteen

Soren

My father doesn’t deserve reconciliation. He doesn’t deserve a damn day of peace with everything he’s done to my family and me. While my mother isn’t a saint, understanding her motives has put me in a better position to lead, granting me purpose that I wasn’t positive I would ever obtain.

I shouldn’t give her too much credit. The inspiration to approach my father and resume my position as the heir is only to make sure my grandmother gets the care she needs. While holding a teacup gently between two fingers, my muscles burn with rage at the fact that my hands are metaphorically tied.

“I won’t send her to a home,” my father promises, “so long as you secure your position in Macedon as heir to this family and create a home of your own.”

I nod. “Agreed.”

The terms of this condition are easy to follow for me. Without Alex weighing me down emotionally, I don’t have to worry about whether or not starting a family will offend her. Do I want to give up a future with her? It’s hard to say. I don’t think I ever had one, even with the marriage contract in our midst.

After sipping my tea, I set the teacup in its saucer and rise, bowing at the waist toward my father and wandering out of the living room. Just because I’m back doesn’t mean I want quality time with that dipshit. I’d rather deal with those hicks from Scow Landing than my indifferent and frigid father.

“Soren,” my mother calls from the dining room. “Won’t you join me?”

I sigh. Do I have a choice? “Yes, Mother.”

Warm afternoon light drifts through the windows and casts a homey glow over the oak wood table where she sits with a charcuterie board. She pushes a plate toward me and gestures to the spread, pushing her empty wineglass toward me next. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes is a feat stronger than facing my father. I should have won a damn award by now for dealing with my family.

After refilling her glass, I pour myself a little bit and swirl the liquid inside, humming as I peruse my available choices of meat and cheese. “I’m glad Nana will have twenty-four-hour care in her cottage. She needs to stay close to us.”

“She does,” Mother agrees. “Thanks to you, we won’t have to worry about arranging visits. We can just walk across the lawn.”

“Should have been that option before, but whatever.”

She purses her lips, a sour expression taking her face as she says, “You know, you ought to think about your appearance here.”

“What about my appearance?”

I pluck salami and cheddar from the board, place them on the plate in front of me, and slump into the chair, raising the glass of wine to my nose. Inhaling the aroma gives me a moment of peace.

Until my mother opens her mouth again.

“You’re back, and you need an advisor,” she states confidently while lifting her glass. She extends it toward me as if she’s making a toast but says instead, “Your presence—and your image—will have a strong influence on your prospects.”

I sigh. “You mean marriage.”

“What else would I be talking about?” She laughs, the sound of it so comical that it tickles me. My mother rarely laughs out of amusement. “You mean like joining a sports team? Please, Soren. You’re such a card.”

I can’t believe I was willing to forgive her greediness when I arrived. I grab a few more slices of meat, a handful of Swiss cheese cubes, and then pick through them carefully, meticulous about how I eat them and how many times I chew. She’s just as selfish as my father. Why did I ever think I could trust my mother? I never really could in the past.

“I’m not bad at sports,” I point out. And it’s a reasonable statement, though her eyes cut to me like they’re made of glass. I feel the way her gaze shreds me, how her criticism slices right to the bone without saying a word. I shrug and add, “I could use that to my advantage. I’m excellent at strategy and execution.”

“Yes, highlight your strengths,” she agrees while her gaze softens. Though her coldness remains, the sunlight pouring through the windows enhances her motherly looks. If I could pretend like none of this was happening—like I wasn’t the only son of a Mob boss—then maybe I could lean into her appearance and play fantasy for a little while.

But that’s for fools. “I figured as much.”

“Your performance is everything, Soren,” she continues. “You should think about how you’re going to present yourself to the world. Who you choose to stand at your side will say more than your…” She pauses for a moment, hesitating as she gestures to my face. “Accident.”

“I think it’s distinguishing.”

She grimaces. “Nobody wants to kiss a face like that.”

“How do you know what women like these days, Mother?” I pop a cube of Swiss cheese into my mouth, chew thirteen times, and then swallow. “I don’t think I need an advisor. I need space so I can determine for myself the best course of action.”

“We have a collection of lawyers at your disposal,” she says as if she didn’t hear me—and I doubt she wanted to hear me at all. “Everyone you could ever want is on the side of the Pershings. We’re so much more respected than those Morettis or Somervilles. Could you imagine the scandal? The drama?” She scoffs dramatically. “We’re such a clean-cut family. You should think of matching your face to that image.”