SWNOVELS Devious Vow: Chapter 3
The doors to the boardroom have barely shut behind Charles’ exit before Taylor jabs her middle finger at them.
“No offense, but your grandfather is a real fucking prick.”
“Taylor,” Gabriel sighs, dropping his head heavily against the back of his chair. “I think I speak for Alistair as well when I say we will never, ever, under any circumstances, be offended if you call Charles Black a fucking prick.”
“Or worse,” I mutter darkly.
Taylor blows air through her lips, puffing out her cheeks as she stands and runs her fingers through her long red hair. “It’s the fucking entitlement. I mean…my God.”
“Are you clear now why our parents didn’t involve him in our lives?” I grunt, kicking my feet up on the boardroom table. “Not to mention that the bastard retaliated by not sending us, his own grandchildren, Christmas or birthday presents. The man redefines petulant narcissism.”
Gabriel and I have never had what most people would call a “good” relationship with our paternal grandfather, especially since he snuck his way onto the Crown and Black board when we opened the firm. It only got worse when he finagled his way—probably though blackmail—into a near-majority voting interest on said board.
But the frostiness hit Cold War levels a few months ago, when we ripped his claws out of his daughter, Maeve—aka Gabriel’s, Tempest’s, and my eighteen year old aunt, courtesy of Charles’ young gold digger trophy wife—thereby allowing her to move out from under his control and into Gabriel’s place.
In hindsight, we should have expected a counter-maneuver, from the way he let that particular fight go so quickly. And now here it is: at our impromptu meeting just now, Charles made it clear that if we lose the extremely high-profile Chinellato case that we’re defense on, he’s going to go to war with us, using the boardroom as the battlefield.
Crown and Black always has dozens of cases going on at the same time. There are the three name partners: Taylor, Gabriel, and I. Then on top of that, we’ve got a dozen equity partners, about twice as many associates, and something like thirty junior associates, not to mention a small army of legal aides. And we all stay busy.
But the Roberto Chinellato case is the star of the show right now. First, because the billable hours are ludicrous. And second, because our prick, wannabe-mafioso of a grandfather does sleazy business under the table with Roberto, and has made it abundantly clear how bad it would be for him if Bobby-boy went to prison.
Gabriel’s brow knits. “How solid are we with the Chinellato case?”
Taylor waves a dismissive hand. “Bulletproof, and you know I don’t say that lightly.”
We do, just like we know just about everything about Taylor, and vice versa. The three of us linked up in law school—Gabriel and I following in our dad’s footsteps, and Taylor blazing her own trail. My brother and I were fresh off the pain of losing our sister Layla to heroin, and Taylor…
Well, Taylor’s got more scars and wounds under her thirty-year-old skin than you’d ever know by looking at her.
Bottom line, the three of us became inseparable. I’m sure a therapist would eagerly point out how Taylor effectively became our “replacement Layla” in some weird psychological way. Maybe she did, but hey—it works.
The question, or at least the veiled suggestion, comes up all the goddamn time: Gabriel and I are both single, successful, wealthy, and genetically blessed. Here we are, working long hours side-by-side with a gorgeous redhead with runway model legs, a genius brain, and a bank account and success to match our own. So…?
So nothing. It isn’t, never has been, and never will be anything like that. Taylor’s essentially an honorary sibling to Gabriel, our little sister Tempest, and I, especially since she doesn’t have any family of her own.
Gabriel turns to me, looking for any cracks in Taylor’s statement. I just shake my head. “No, we’re solid. Roberto’s alibi the night of the shooting is unimpeachable.”
“Unimpeachable and true, or just unimpeachable?”
I smile significantly at my brother. “What did we say about asking questions whose answers come with potential consequences, class?”
Gabriel grimaces. I mean, I understand. We went through the same law program. We grew up with the same father, aka the patron saint of telling the truth, helping the weak, and upholding justice above all else.
But this is the game. Our success as a firm early on was in no small part due to our willingness to take on clients that other firms…wouldn’t. We don’t exactly advertise it, but a solid chunk of our client base is criminally connected.
It bothers Gabriel more than it bothers me. After all, he went into law to follow our father’s path. I got into the business to know exactly where the fuzzy lines and gray areas are. To know precisely how to bend things to my needs.
There’s a version of my reality where I found the straight and narrow path. A version where she-who-shall-not-be-named didn’t rip out whatever goodness had formed on my heart like moisture on a cold window and grind it under her heel.
Am I a bitter, antagonistic, and at times tyrannical prick because Eloise LeBlanc fucked me up? Or did she fuck me up because I’m a bitter, antagonistic, and at times tyrannical prick?
Shrödinger’s sense of self. But I digress.
In any case, I’ve spent the last twelve hours preparing for my meeting with Massimo today by adhering to a strict training schedule of avoiding sleep, betting an obscene amount of money on myself before taking on—and yes, taking down—Big Joe’s revenge-seeking brother Big Jack in the ring, and then taking myself on a solo date to Club Venom to drown myself in more gambling, some drinks, and watching the deviance of the place unfold around me.
It’s essentially what I did the night before the Bar exam, and that worked out pretty great.
And no, I see zero pattern in how I spend my nights before facing difficult realities.
None whatsoever.
“Relax, Gabriel,” I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “The alibi’s solid. Also, Judge Hawkins has already hinted that she’ll be throwing out Roberto’s priors as admissible evidence. We’re fine. It’s in the bag.”
“You remember what dad said fine stood for, right?”
“Fucked. Insecure. Neurotic—”
“Is any of this really helpful at the moment, boys?” Taylor sighs, adopting the big sister, almost “motherly” tone she takes with us at times, despite being three years younger.
“Yeah, Gabriel. Is it?”
My brother rolls his eyes and glances at his Rolex. “We’re scheduled for Conference Room A in twenty minutes with Carveli.” He frowns as he glances my way. “Are you…”
“Fine? Yes. Thanks for asking.”
He nods. “Just making sure, man. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a quick call before our meeting—”
“How are your friends at Empire Political Consultants?”
He shoots me a look.
“What?” I grin innocently.
“Nothing,” Gabriel mutters back, scowling. “Look, I don’t know what you think is going on, but—”
“I think you’re going to be late for your call with Empire Political Consultants.”
He glares at me. “That’s—”
“Please give them my very best.”
When he strides out, I roll my eyes.
“What do you think, Tay? Any idea what the fuck that guy is up to, hiring—”
“Alistair.”
I turn toward my friend. “Taylor.”
Her face twists somewhere between sympathy and concern. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Do what, exactly?”
She sighs. “The meeting with Massimo Carveli. I know…”
“Know what.”
“I know you and Eloise Leblanc have…” She looks away. “A past.”
Okay, so the three of us don’t know everything about each other, just close to it. Taylor knows the basic outline of the Eloise story. But she doesn’t know all the specifics.
Neither does Gabriel, for that matter.
“We went to college together. That’s the big juicy story, Taylor. The end.” I get up from my chair, closing the file folder in front of me before heading for the door. Taylor follows me out, and waits with me for the elevator.
“Alistair. C’mon.”
“What?”
“I mean… You dated her.”
“I think you and I might have different definitions of ‘date’.”
Truth be told, I don’t even know if Taylor knows the definition of that word. I’ve literally never once seen her involved in any sort of relationship. She’s the walking, talking definition of “too smart for her own good” and “married to her career”. It probably doesn’t help that she’s beautiful enough to chase away the shy guys, and too clueless about those looks to understand why the bold ones are talking to her.
“We didn’t date,” I continue as we get into the elevator and ride down one floor to the executive offices. “I fucked her. Once. And that was ten years ago.”
“My, what a romantic you are, Alistair,” she drawls flatly.
“Said nobody about me, ever.”
She shakes her head as we walk from the elevator banks toward my corner office. “So… Does Massimo Carveli, notoriously psychotic son of the late Luca “The Carver” Carveli, know that his wife is yet another name on the lengthy list of Alistair Black’s conquests?”
Katerina, my assistant, does a spectacular job of keeping her gaze firmly on her computer screen and pretending she didn’t hear what Taylor just said. All the same, I clear my throat to get her attention.
“That was never said out loud, and I send you on a one-week trip to the tropical destination of your choice on the corporate card. Deal?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Black, what was never said?”
Yeah, there’s a reason Katerina has lasted in this job when so many before her haven’t.
“Excellent. How’s your sister, by the way?”
“Still married, Mr. Black,” she smiles sweetly.
“Let me know if that changes?”
“You’ll be the first one I tell.”
Taylor rolls her eyes as we step into my office. “You’re a walking cautionary HR training video.”
“And Katerina appreciates my sense of humor.” I drop the file onto my desk and turn to her. “You were saying?”
“I was asking if Massimo knew that you’ve fucked his wife.”
“What do you think?”
“I think if he did, knowing his reputation, you’d be dead right now,” she says with an arched brow. “Or, at the least, without your dick still attached to your body.”
“You’re amazing at these pre-meeting motivational talks, Tay. You should really take this act on the road.”
She grins before she shakes her head. “For real, though. What’s the story with—”
“We’re going to be late.”