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“Syrus,” I say, giving him a nod as well.
Syrus. The Persian word for throne. It’s so fitting, it almost sounds like it might be a nickname, but it isn’t. His father, my grandfather, knew he would live up to grand expectations, unlike his other son.
My uncle’s health has declined in recent years, and seeing him now is almost depressing. His once peppered hair is now fully gray and breaking. His skin has wrinkled and blotches of purple peek from under his shirt. He looks like he’s thirty years older than the last time we spoke.
“I’m not ‘uncle’ anymore?”
I rest my hands on the arms of the chair and don’t respond. We both know there isn’t anything to say.
Syrus sighs. He picks up his tumbler, filled with whiskey if that’s still his drink of choice, and brings it to his lips. When he sits the glass down, he rolls his neck and looks at me.
“Tell me about this PR situation of yours.”
“It’s being handled. There was a misunderstanding with—”
“I’m aware it’s being handled,” he says, a hint of malice in his tone. “It’s the family’s job to ensure it’s handled. The prostitute and the reporter will no longer be a problem. What I would like to know is whatyouare doing about it? Have you taken any interviews?”
“No.” I say without hesitation. “It’s better if I don’t. People will grow bored and the gossip will die easier that way. If I apologize or admit wrong doing, or even lie, it’ll only fuel the drama and lead to further questions.”
Syrus considers this and then lifts his tumbler again. “Good.” He takes another drink. “You’ve always been a smart boy, Colter, and you’ve turned into a promising politician. We trust you. Do not break that trust… I would hate to forget you’re my brother’s son.”
My teeth grit at the mention of my father. The fact he would even bring him up feels like a waterfall of disrespect collapsing on me. My face hardens, and I can feel the resentment bubbling up my throat. I want to scream at him. Wrap my hands around the old man’s throat and squeeze until his eyes have no life left.
Uncle?
He stopped being my uncle years ago.
“Colter knows what he’s doing,” Settimo speaks up. My eyes move to him. He’s speaking to his father, but his eyes meet mine. “He’ll get the job done.”
Settimo stands and moves toward the drink cart. “If it’s all the same to everyone, I’ll suggest we put this… hiccup, behind us. Today is a day of celebration.”
Settimo picks up a bottle. “Is it still bourbon?”
“It is,” I say, letting some of my anger diffuse. I thank Settimo in my mind for the change in subject. As much as I don’t want to talk about Abi, or really anything, to these three, it’s better than speaking of my father.
Settimo pours a glass and then another for himself. “Lorenzo?” He arches a brow at his brother who raises his glass, still with liquor in it.
“I’m good,” Lorenzo says.
Settimo brings me the glass and then raises his own, glancing over his shoulder at Lorenzo and his father to ensure they do the same. “To Colter and his bride… and to moving forward,” he says.
He clinks his glass with mine and takes a pull, and I do the same, welcoming the burn as it goes down.
“How is the lovely Abigail?” Lorenzo asks. I meet his stare and try to read him, but as usual, I can’t. Settimo seems genuine, maybe even partially regretful. I wonder if he’ll come right out and apologize for having Abi fucking kidnapped and terrified. I doubt it.
“She’s a bit nervous to be meeting the family, to be honest,” I say. “She’s still rather shaken up… but otherwise, she’s good.”
“Of course,” Settimo says, shooting Lorenzo a glare.
Ah, so it was in fact Lorenzo’s judgement call.
“Well, we’re thrilled to finally be meeting her… perhaps when the election is over and things have cooled down, we’ll be able to have you over more often.”
“It would mean a lot to your aunt,” Syrus says. He sounds genuine as well, now that he isn’t threatening my life. It’s incredible how this family operates. We love you until we don’t. Be on our side and you’ll be invincible, go another direction and you’re the enemy. No mercy. No empathy. No regrets.
My lips twitch, and I smooth my thumb over the cool glass. “Sure.”
“Fantastic.” Lorenzo sets his glass down and leans forward in the chair, his hands resting on his knees. “So… tell us about the beautiful Abigail.”