Exposed (Ethan Frost 3)

“You’re not going to get one more penny from those people,” I tell him. “Not from them or from anyone else. Your days of collecting donations are over.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs with a disbelieving laugh.

“Is it? Because you can do it, or I can do it. And my way means you’ll never get support from anyone, anywhere, ever again.”

“Jesus. You think you’re so fucking important, y—”

“Make no mistake, Brandon. In this arena, I am very important.”

“Maybe so. But I have connections, too, you know. Even if you get Margo and some of the other donors to drop out, I have my own donors. I can still get the funds I need to run all on my own.”

“I assume you’re talking about Nico Valducci.” I have the pleasure of watching his jaw drop. “When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, as of a week ago, Nico won’t take your calls. He won’t donate to your campaign, he won’t extend you any more credit for your little gambling problem. He’s out, and so are all of his friends.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“True words, Brandon. But you might want to keep in mind that we share the same mother.” I step back a little, gesture to the ballroom filled with press and campaign donors. “Now, this is the only chance you’re going to get to walk away from this, so I suggest you take it. I suggest you walk back into that room and formally withdraw your candidacy in front of all those reporters and donors. Tell them you’ve had a change of heart and that public service isn’t for you, after all. Which isn’t even a stretch now, is it?”

“Are you insane? Why would I do that?” His smile still hasn’t budged, though it has gone a little flat around the edges. Combined with the stirrings of fear in his eyes, the whole look is a little macabre.

“You’re going to do exactly that,” I tell him, “because if you do, I’ll walk away. I won’t tell them what you did to Chloe and all those other women. I won’t tell them about your gambling problem and your ties to the Vegas mafia. I won’t even tell them about the drugs. If you walk in there and do exactly what I’m telling you to do, I won’t rip you apart in front of the most influential people and reporters in Boston.”

The fear has turned to sheer, out-and-out panic combined with a healthy dose of anger. His anger is nothing compared to the fury that seethes inside of me, growing with every second that Chloe’s rape and pain is unavenged.

“You wouldn’t!!” he snaps out. “Mom would—”

“First of all, you’re going to want to be very careful about bringing our mother into this,” I warn him. “After the stunt she pulled a couple of weeks ago, I’ve got about as much respect for her as I do for you. And second, ignore me and I’ll do exactly that and not feel an ounce of guilt about it.”

“There’s no way I’m giving up my candidacy. I’ve worked too hard to get here,” he snarls, sounding more like a petulant child than a candidate for Congress. “And you can’t make me.”

“Maybe you’re right.” I lift a brow, shrug negligently. “Maybe I can’t make you withdraw from the race. But I can damn sure make it so that the press destroys you. By the time I’m done, there won’t be a person left in this whole goddamned state willing to vote for you.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

I snap then, my good intentions going out the window like so much smoke. This is the bastard who raped my wife, who made her life a living hell for years after that. The thought keeps pounding in my brain, keeps moving forward until my hands are grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket and I’m hauling him onto his tiptoes so that we’re face-to-face. “You don’t have a fucking clue what I’ll dare to keep you from being elected, Brandon. Not one fucking clue. But keep pushing and you’ll find out.”

“Ethan.” He goes from confrontational to wheedling in seconds. “Come on, man. I’ve been working for this my whole life—”

“You should have thought of that before you decided raping a woman was an appropriate way to end a date. It’s about time you realized that actions have consequences, Brandon. That the whole damn world isn’t yours for the taking. Most people le

arn that lesson by kindergarten—”

“Don’t lecture me, you sanctimonious prick.” He struggles to throw my hands off, but I’m not budging. Not now, not on this. “You’ve had everything you’ve ever wanted just handed to you. And if you think you can come in here and order me to give up my candidacy, then fuck you.”

“Throwing a temper tantrum isn’t going to change the way this plays out, little brother.” I use the nickname deliberately. “You’ve only got one option.”

“There are nondisclosure agreements—”

“Fuck nondisclosure agreements. You think I won’t buy those women’s way out of them and consider it the best use of my money, ever?”

He pales for the first time, the angry red flush fading into pasty whiteness. “You’re my brother. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

I ignore the pang that comes with his words, shove it down deep where he can’t see just how close to home he’s hitting. “You raped the woman I love and made her lie about it. Then you came to my house and taunted her with what you’d done. Any small amount of loyalty I felt for you died the day you sent Chloe fleeing barefoot from my house. From me.”

If possible, he grows even paler. “You’re bluffing.”