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8
TRANSITION
Are you out of your goddamned mind?”
I calmly hand my coat to Felix, my father’s gray-haired, unflappable butler, brush the specks of rain from my hair and straighten my cuffed sleeves. “Good evening, Dad. How was your trip to Albany?”
“Answer me, boy!”
“Am I out of my mind? We both know the likelihood of that answer leaning toward yes is high. Sadly, ten years of therapy later, Dr. Nathanson hasn’t found her way to a clear diagnosis. Perhaps we should invite her over, discuss the matter over cheese and wine?”
He rushes toward me, six foot one feet of thoroughbred Blackwood stock. I keep a loose-limbed stance, but my blood spikes in anticipation.
He stops a dozen feet away. I’m disappointed.
“Is everything a joke to you, son?”
My bark of laughter strangles off within a nanosecond. “I never joke about wine. Or cheese.”
At fifty-one, Maxwell Blackwood is in prime, Blackwood condition. He’s fourth generation in a long line of power-wielding Blackwoods, built from the ground up in pure New York royalty. His brief but illustrious stint in the army has also added a touch of grit to his innate charisma. What Maxwell Blackwood couldn’t obtain with a smile he claims with an iron fist. It’s what makes him one of the most respected and feared men in the country.
We face off in the wide hallway of the mansion. Felix hovers at a discreet distance, his decades-long service to my family having anaesthetized him to confrontations such as these. I stare at my father. His snowy white tuxedo shirt indicates he’s just returned from one of the many functions that demand his time these days.
Hands planted on lean hips, eyes two shades darker than mine narrow and glare in white hot anger. “Did you or did you not give away my Miami condo project to a fucking homeless charity?”
Maxwell seldom swears. So twice in two sentences is an achievement.
“Oh…that. The quarterly charity drive is weeks away. I thought I’d get a jump on it.”
A vein pops in his temple. “That project is worth eighty million dollars. You didn’t think to discuss it with me first, before you issued a goddamn press release announcing the donation?”
I slide my hands into my pockets before he can see them bunch. “Frankly, no.”
He looks furiously incredulous. He starts to whirl away, but checks back almost instantly, points a finger at me. “You will cancel the contract tomorrow, Quinn. Take out another press release stating you made a mistake. Give them something else if you must, but you will not give them the Miami project.”
“I could, but then how would you look, Dad? The donation was made in your name, from a company that bears your name. Think of the embarrassment factor.”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, you’re the goddamn embarrassment!” He reaches up and yanks loose the first stud securing the tuxedo.
I roll on the balls of my feet. “Thanks. Now, are were going to get to the real reason I’m here, or shall I leave and go back to ignoring your phone calls?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I’m almost tempted to tell him. Surely, he can’t be that dense? But then I remember that hubris is a giant flaw of the Blackwoods.
So I shrug.
“I need an answer, dammit. A shrug isn’t going to cut it, son.”
I grit my back teeth against the tug of satanic rage that engulfs me every time he calls me son. “If you say so.”
We go back to facing off again.
Felix clears his throat. “Mister Quinn, can I get you something to drink?”
“That would be excellent,” I reply without taking my gaze off my father. “You have any of that Macallan ’46 still tucked safely away, old man?”
“Of course. Coming right up, sir. Same for you, Mr. Blackwood?”