But what it boiled down to was this: Troy and I weren’t blood-related.
He had frosty, alabaster blue eyes. Mine were gray, like Brock Greystone’s.
His hair was jet-black, peppered with gray at the temples and his widow’s peak. Mine was toffee-brown.
He was pale. I was tan.
He was built like a rugby player. I was built like a rugby field.
And he was born into money, while I’d had to adapt to it.
The phrase ‘eat the rich’ always amused me. I’d learned from a young age that it is the rich who eat you. That was why people hated them so much.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
I was never going to be poor again, which was why touching Aisling Fitzpatrick was unwise. The Fitzpatricks made me richer. A whole fucking lot richer than I was when I started out with this gig, breaking legs for congressmen and stashing mistresses on exotic islands.
“This is not going to touch Sailor, Hunter, Rooney, or Xander,” I assured him, referring to my sister, her husband, and her children. I flipped my Zippo back and forth between my fingers, losing interest in the conversation.
“Hunter’s gonna blow a gasket,” Troy noted.
“Hunter’s too busy creating his own family to give a fuck about the one who turned their back on him when he was in boarding school,” I snapped, baring my teeth.
It wasn’t like the Fitzpatricks were winning any Brady Bunch awards anytime soon. If anything, they gave the Lannisters a run for their money.
“I’m not going to spare the feelings of every motherfucker I’ve ever had a beer with. Hunter’ll survive. Gerald has earned my wrath.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Gerald can get your wrath, too. I have no dog in this fight, Sam.” Troy’s nostrils flared, and I could tell he was measuring his words carefully. He’d oftentimes tried to diffuse situations I’d stormed into, mainly because he knew the potential of my exploding was high to almost fucking certain. I liked breaking things and watching them shatter. Call me nostalgic, but chaos reminded me of my childhood. And I was always ready for a bloodbath.
“I just want to make sure you don’t do anything too impulsive. I know you, son. You’ve always been trigger-happy.”
“Not as happy as I’d like to be.” I dropped the Zippo, fingering my St. Anthony charm tied to my neck by a leather string. “Which brings us to the next topic. I caught the Russians smuggling a hundred and thirty pounds of hashish into one of their delis. Whatever Vasily Mikhailov sold—and it was not fucking pastrami—he didn’t hand over a cut from the earnings.”
So I cut his face. An eye for an eye and all that.
Perhaps cutting the Bratva boss’ face wasn’t the most calculated thing I’d ever done, but it sure brought me pleasure to see him screaming in pain as he writhed beneath me.
Troy snarled. “Don’t get me started about the Russians. You had no business taking over their territory in the first place. Back to Gerald Fitzpatrick.” He spun his index finger in the air, rewinding the topic. “I want you to sit on this information until we confirm it. I know it looks bad—”
“It’s airtight,” I lashed out. “I have proof. Hard facts.” I slapped the papers between us.
Not everything Cat had said was true, but most of it was. Enough to warrant my need to wring Gerald dry. The guy murdered my baby brother. My only biological family in this world. Brock was gone. Cat was gone. I could have had something. I could have had a person to take care of.
“And still…” he slammed his fist over the desk between us “…you know something he thinks you don’t know. You have the upper hand now. Operate within the scope of your role, but don’t turn this into the Red fucking Wedding. I know you, Sam. You enjoy delivering slow deaths much more than fast killings. Torture him, but don’t finish him completely.”
He had a point. Why go to Gerald with this information and give him the opportunity to defend himself when I could milk it out of him the good old-fashioned way, by making his life a living hell?
If revenge and punishment were forms of art, my work would be all over the Louvre. I could pluck Gerald’s soul out with a fucking spoon and feast on it, all without upsetting my sister and her gigolo-looking husband.
“Fine,” I drawled, lounging lazily on my leather chair. “I suppose I could torture him a little. But I will go for the throat eventually.”
“Eventually is still at least a few months away, and I hope I can stumble across some information that will make you change your mind between now and then.” Troy stood up, buttoning his blazer, his gaze cold and yet somehow approving.
More than he hated that he’d created a monster, he loathed that he loved it.