Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

She’s quieter than usual. I don’t know if she’s annoyed about me stealing her clothes, or if she’s nervous about the night ahead of us.

I feel calm and more focused than I’ve been in weeks. Just as my father predicted, the Italians are throwing their full support behind me now that Aida and I are officially married. La Spata is sunk, and I’ve already dug up some fantastic dirt on Kelly Hopkins from her college years, when she was neck-deep in a cheating ring, selling ready-made thesis papers to wealthier and lazier students. Poor little scholarship student, forced to compromise her morals to get her degree.

That’s what you always find in the end—no matter how pure people pretend to be, when the screw gets tight, there’s always some place they crack.

That’s going to shoot an arrow right through her pretensions of moral superiority. Which leaves the field clear for one candidate alone: me.

The election is only a week away. Almost nothing can fuck this up for me now.

As long as I can keep my wife in line.

I see her sitting across from me in the back of the town car. She looks calm enough, watching the buildings stream by out the window. But she doesn’t fool me. I know how unruly she is. I might have slipped a bridle over her head for the moment, but she’s going to try to buck me off again the moment she gets the chance.

The crucial thing is to keep her in line during this party. After that, she can mutiny as much as she likes. Several Italian business owners, CEOs, investors, and union reps will be here tonight. They need to see my wife at my side: obedient. Supportive.

We drive to the Fulton Market District, which used to be full of meat-packing plants and warehouses and has now gentrified into hotels, bars, restaurants, and trendy tech companies. The fundraiser is at Morgan’s on Fulton, in the penthouse at the very top of the building.

We make our way toward the elevator through the art gallery on the main floor. It’s stuffed floor-to-ceiling with paintings of various styles, in varying levels of skill. Aida pauses by one particularly hideous modern piece in shades of peach, taupe, and tan.

“Oh, look,” she says. “Now I know what to get your mother for Christmas.”

“I suppose you prefer that,” I say, nodding toward a dark and moody oil painting of Cronus devouring his children.

“Oh yes,” Aida says, nodding somberly. “Family portrait. That’s Papa when we leave the cupboards open or forget to turn off the lights.”

I give a little snort, and Aida looks startled, like she’s never heard me laugh before. She probably hasn’t.

As we reach the elevator at last, somebody calls, “Hold the door!”

I put my arm out to stop it from closing.

Then I immediately regret it when I see Oliver Castle push his way inside.

“Oh,” he says, spotting us and giving an arrogant toss of his head. His hair is longish, thick and sun-streaked. He’s got a tan and a hint of a burn, like he’s been out on a boat all day. When he grins, his teeth look too white by comparison.

He looks Aida up and down, letting his eyes crawl over her body, which looks lusciously hourglass-shaped in the tight, beaded dress. It pisses me off how blatant he’s being. My arrangement with Aida might not be romantic, but she’s still my wife. She belongs to me and me alone. Not this overgrown rich kid.

“You really went all out, Aida,” he says. “I don’t remember you dressing up like that for me.”

“Guess it wasn’t worth the effort,” I say, glowering at him.

Oliver snorts.

“I dunno. Guess Aida was just using her effort for other things . . .”

I get a vivid image of Aida sliding her tongue up and down Oliver’s cock like she did to mine. I’m hit with jealousy like a sack of wet mud. It knocks the air out of me.

It takes everything I have not to grab Castle by the lapels of his velvet dinner jacket and throw him up against the elevator wall.

I might have done it if the elevator didn’t give a lurch at exactly that moment, stopping at the top floor. The doors part, and Oliver saunters out without a look back at us.

Aida’s watching me with her cool gray eyes.

I don’t like this new quiet Aida. It makes me nervous, wondering what she’s up to. I like it better when she blurts out whatever she’s thinking as soon as it comes into her head. Even if it really pisses me off in the moment.

The penthouse is a large, open room, currently stuffed full of potential donors getting sloshed on free liquor. Of course, it’s not really free—I’m going to try to milk every one of these fuckers for every last bit of support I can get out of them. But in the meantime, they’re welcome to gorge themselves on high-end cocktails and fancy finger foods.

One whole side of the room is composed of sliding glass doors, currently thrown open to the rooftop deck. The guests can mingle back and forth, enjoying the warm night air and the breeze off the lake. The open-air deck is strung with glowing lanterns, and it offers a striking view of the city lights below.