Vicious (Sinners of Saint 1)

“You hanging in there?” I smirked at Baron Senior now, painfully aware of the men behind me.

He blinked his eyes but said nothing, because he couldn’t. I, on the other hand, had plenty to say. I knew my words could possibly kill him. I didn’t care.

“Sorry I dropped in unannounced. I needed to see Eli Cole about your will.”

As far as Dad knew, he and I were on good terms. Last time I’d seen him, I still even feigned interest in his business and his health, but it was show time. Revenge time. I ambled into his room and took a seat at the edge of his bed. The bastard wasn’t going to spill a word about it.

Was I the primary beneficiary?

Was Jo?

There were a lot of fucking millions on the line here. Dad’s power was in his money. That’s how he’d controlled his wives and that’s how he thought he’d gained my respect. He was wrong. As usual.

“You know, it’s going to be interesting to see how much you left Jo. You always kept your cards close to your chest. Used your wealth for power. I bet you made her agree to that draconian prenup before you even sucked her tits, huh?” I winked playfully, my lips curving into a slight smirk.

He didn’t respond, but breathed hard. Yeah, the Spencer men were lawyers by training, and they liked women…but they fucking loved money.

“Na. I bet you did the right thing by her. From your point of view, at least. Not from mine. The fact that you killed Mom kind of changes everything.” I jutted my lower lip out, gauging him for a reaction.

Until then, he didn’t know I knew. Didn’t know that I’d overheard him and Jo talking in the library before it happened.

Dad’s eyes grew big and perplexed, then darted to the hallway helplessly, but it was futile. From where the nurses were positioned, the situation looked innocent. A son softly speaking to his ailing father.

“Are you sure your brother will keep his mouth shut? I can’t risk anyone knowing. Even a whiff of suspicion could destroy my business dealings.”

“Baby, it won’t. I promise you.”

“I’m not a bad man, Josephine. But I don’t want this burden for the rest of my life.”

It was a year after my mother got seriously injured in a car accident that left her a quadriplegic. I was nine. Way too young to understand what it meant.

I didn’t know what to make of it then, so I’d collected every word said behind the library door where I’d eavesdropped, until the puzzle was complete. By the age of ten, I knew that conversation by heart.

By the age of twelve, I also knew exactly what it meant.

“Trust me, Daryl will help you. I’m telling you, darlin’, no one will ever know. Anyway, people have no right to judge. You may as well be married to a garden vegetable.”

“I don’t know, Jo. I don’t know”

“Baby,” she purred. “Honey, you can’t divorce her at this point. We both know that ship sailed as soon as she had the accident. What’s there to think about? You’ll be doing her a favor anyway, if you ask me. She can’t even scratch her nose anymore.”

“What about Baron Junior? What about my son?”

“What about him?” she snapped. “Aren’t I good enough for him? Trust me, he’ll barely remember her when he grows up.”

I stared at what had become of my father since Jo and her brother had entered our lives. I wasn’t supposed to be there the day I first saw Daryl Ryler in our house. I came home sick from school, and our housekeeper at the time picked me up from school…

I’d climbed up the stairs, dropped my backpack on the floor in my room, but instead of crawling into bed, I’d wanted to see my mom. The guestroom they’d put her in was across the hall, and it was more like a hospital room than a bedroom. I wanted to read her the poem I’d written in Language Arts and tape it to her wall. She had a whole collection of them.

The stranger didn’t see me. The man was leaving her room and I was about to ask him if he was today’s nurse.

“You should be in bed, Baron,” the housekeeper had called from the bottom of the stairs. “You have fever. Make sure not to bother your mother. You don’t want to make her sick.”

I never got to read her my poem. Twenty minutes later, her nurse—a woman, not the man I’d seen—called an ambulance. Her respirator was clogged.

Coincidence? I didn’t think so.

“That’s right, Dad. I know about you sending Daryl Ryler to kill her.” I grinned and patted my father’s stiff shoulder, watching his eyes dancing. That man I saw leaving Mom’s room? It was Daryl Ryler.

My father looked panicked, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Realization washed over his face, and it was my time to strike harder.