Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
But the MBA was my ticket to legitimacy. I got established in upper management as a trusted team player and emerging leader. The shot callers adored me and tried their best to groom me. I wasn’t just a punk kid anymore; I was the guy who knew how to manipulate the numbers, launder the dirty money, and create enough shell corporations to have the FBI sniffing around for years before they could pin anything on me.
I was good at my job. Hell, I killed it at work. Listed in Forbes as ‘Thirty under Thirty’ just eighteen months after receiving my degree. I didn’t squirm at corruption. I’d seen it all and then some. And from the way I’d been kicked around like a dog in Wainscott Hollow, I’d learned to be ruthless, sometimes even lethal. I didn’t need to get my hands dirty, there were plenty of underlings for that, but I had no issue being called into the fray. Sometimes I even craved it, like the blood on my hands became a metaphor for the carnage in my heart. Hearing the screams of my victims quieted the desperate screams in my own mind. Who knew the sweet, orphaned kid from Wainscott Hollow would become capable of murder and mayhem that would have any capo quivering in his shiny Italian leather shoes?
I took one more drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my foot and unlocking the giant mahogany door with the Shaw family crest embossed in gold filigree into the glass. Old man Shaw must be so proud looking down on us. His empire is a worthless wasteland, thanks to his insanely inept son.
“Who the fuck are you?” is the first thing Henry slurs.
He stumbles down the marble staircase where the portrait of Richard Shaw now hangs crookedly in its former place of honor. Henry looks like shit, barefoot, clad in striped pajama bottoms that hug his burgeoning beer gut a little too snugly, and a wife beater with yellowed armpits and stains that resemble vomit. I can smell the cretin better than I can see him. His hair has grown long and falls in greasy strings around his jaundiced face. The top his head is completely bald and he looks like a sad Dickensian villain, his chin is covered in a sparse bird’s nest, a jumbled mess of straggly hair attempting to disguise his weak jawline. A beard that, strangely, falls to his navel. He looks clinically insane. The man needs a hospital, not millions in inheritance to squander. No wonder Kat went off and married Eddie to escape the nightmare of this house.
I can’t help but hold my breath as I survey what was once an opulent estate—the pride and joy of the late Richard Shaw who attended to every aspect of its meticulous upkeep. It once was a home, with stunning art, fresh flowers, gourmet meals, and breathtaking gardens in the summertime, a glowing fire warming the library walls in winter. It was now relegated to a haunted manor unfit for human habitation. Animal feces smeared all over the marble of the great foyer. Shattered gin bottles and scattered newspapers and unopened mail littered the floor. Even leaves and detritus from the yard had blown in, as if nature was making its best effort to reclaim Wainscott Hollow, drag it back into the dirt, and bury it six feet under.
It may be worth tens of millions, but the inside has deteriorated so severely, the once stately manor had begun to look like a teardown.
I attempt to step forward, and my boots stick to the floor, which likely hasn’t seen a mop since I left ten years ago. This grand estate has become Henry’s private insane asylum.
A humorless laugh catches in my throat. “Who’s the gutter rat now, Henry?” I’m almost sad for him, but my pity has standards higher than Henry Shaw. He’s done this to himself.
“Get the hell out of my house!” he screams. “You’re not welcome here, you interloper. Leave!” Rage flashes in his beady eyes and his grotesque face turns a darker shade of red. Spittle flies from his lips as he curses me, and I can see he’s not well. Young Shaw has passed the point of no return. There isn’t much left in him, and soon I imagine he’ll be dragging his liver behind him in a box if he doesn’t lay off the booze.
I remember the look in his eyes like it was yesterday. When we were kids, he used to get the same look before charging at Kat or me in one of his violent rages. It looks like he’s got the same idea in mind as he lunges forward, loses his balance, and tumbles down the stairs like an old forgotten ragdoll.
I don’t even attempt to break his fall, as I’m sure this must be a daily occurrence for him. Someday soon, if he’s not careful, this is the way he’ll break his neck and end up confined to a wheelchair. Or he’ll land with a crumpled leg at a grotesquely awkward angle, a compound fracture bursting through the skin. Or perhaps one day he’ll wander down to the dunes, pass out in the sand and drown in the shallows like his beloved mother before him. Any of the viable scenarios do not look good. I don’t feel glee at his demise, only disgust at his absolute debasement. Henry has become a bottom feeder, a slithering slug.