Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Good evening, Mr. Trevino,” the doorman says.
“Mitch. How was your granddaughter’s field trip?” I ask.
“She loved it. Thanks again for fronting the money, Mr. Trevino. I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it,” I tell him. Mitch is a good guy. He works hard for me. An ex-convict who struggled for years before I hired him as the doorman here, much to my stepmother’s dismay because he’s also an extra set of eyes for me. He’s supporting his twelve-year-old granddaughter on his own. I make sure she has the extras she needs to have a better shot at life than he or his family has had.
I walk inside, take off my coat and hand it to the girl at the coat check.
“Shall I take it to your office, sir?”
“No, keep it here. I won’t be staying long,” I tell her and head toward the elevator.
She clears her throat. “Um, Mr. Trevino?” she starts, and I turn to her. “Your family asked that you stop in to see them when you get here. They’re still in the dining room.”
I’m tempted to correct her. Remind her they’re not my family, but I don’t. “Fine.”
I paste a smile on my face and stroll toward the dining room which takes up most of the ground floor. It’s a large, beautifully appointed space with polished marble floors, mirrors along all the walls and enough chandeliers that you’d be able to see it from fucking space if they were lit to their full potential. The tables are set at enough distance from each other to offer privacy to the patrons. I spot the three of them in their usual place at the far end, the round table set before the bullet-proof floor-to-ceiling windows, dad’s doing, overlooking the pristine golf course.
Jet sees me first just before I reach the table. He’s leaning back in his seat looking bored and I’m glad to see empty dinner plates all around.
Severin and Sybil stop their conversation at my approach, Severin’s eyes narrowing as he picks up his nearly empty glass.
“Dinner was at eight,” Sybil chastises as if she wanted me here.
The waitress brings me a tumbler of whiskey. “I’m sure you missed me.”
Severin snorts.
“We have a problem, Cassian,” Sybil says.
“And I handled it, Sybil.”
She leans back in her seat and takes a cigarette out of a gold box like she’s a fucking movie star. “How exactly did you handle it?”
“The less you know the better, isn’t that right, Sev?” I ask, shifting my attention to the older Blackstone brother. His jaw ticks. He hates when I use the shortened form of his name. Severin is now head of Blackstone Holdings. Sybil doesn’t have a head for business as much as she may delude herself into thinking she does.
“Go outside and have your cigarette, mother,” Severin tells her. “I’ll handle this.”
She draws in a tight breath, and I wonder for the millionth time what my father saw in her. I mean, she’s beautiful, obviously, but it’s fake. Her face is so full of injectables it doesn’t move. Her hair comes from hours at the hairdresser every three weeks, and the rest of her time she’s either with her personal trainer or shopping. She is a woman who contributes nothing to the world. A waste of space. He certainly didn’t have to marry her to fuck her, and yet he did, and she’s been a thorn in my side for the last seven years.
Severin waits until she’s out of earshot before turning to me. He’s a few months shy of thirty. Our birthdays are only a few weeks apart. Jet is two years younger. I often wonder if he was an accident. Sybil doesn’t hide the fact that her affections for her sons varies.
“Feds came by the casino this week, Cassian.”
I know this. “And?” I sip my whiskey.
“I don’t have to tell you it doesn’t look good for a casino to have Federal investigators poking around.”
“No, I can see that, but it’s handled. Problem solved. They won’t be back.”
“Not good enough. It should never have been a problem to begin with.”
“Well, shit happens, and if I recall, I own the building that houses the casino, so it impacts me as much as it does you.”
“No, your father owns it,” Jet says.
I turn to study him. He gives me an entertained smirk and swallows the last of his whiskey. When Jethro stirs the shit, it usually means he’s bored.
“Stay out of it, Jet,” Severin tells him.
Jet doesn’t bother to acknowledge his older brother. He’s unreadable as ever but he’s been a friend as often as he’s been a foe, and he has his uses. “Your business at the Moretti house? That how you handled it?” he asks me. He’s always been too curious about Trevino business for my liking although if it irritates Severin, that’s a win.