Page 77 of Inheritance

One brow lifted. A slow sip of wine. No words—but the message was clear.

See? He’s an evil fuck too.

I looked back down at my plate, picked up my knife and fork, and started eating.

Gabriel

The plates had been cleared. Chairs scraped back in staggered intervals, a quiet signal that the formal part of the evening had passed. But the real theater was just beginning.

Clusters began to form—men in expensive suits and measured handshakes, women wrapped in quiet appraisal. The air was looser now, but not relaxed. Voices rose in polite rhythm, but under it all was something tighter. Too many eyes. Too many debts in the room.

I hadn’t moved from the table yet. Neither had Damien.

He swirled what was left in his glass with a focused, yet distant expression.

“Can you believe this shit?” he muttered.

“That you killed a man and burned his house down?” I kept my voice low.

He shrugged. “Could’ve been anybody.”

“Could’ve been us.” I grinned.

“Did you ever tell Sophia we took care of that sick fuck? What was his name again?”

“Henry, and no I haven’t told her.”

“Well, at this rate you’d better think of a way to tell her. How the fuck did the feds even find out we were there that night?”

“They only think you were there, apparently. I don’t know.”

Damien scanned the room, then looked back at me.

“What are we going to do?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I spotted my father before he reached us. He looked stronger everyday, there was a clarity to his eyes that was becoming more and more normal.

He walked like the floor owed him something. His suit was dark, perfectly cut. The expression he wore was nearly regal.

He stopped beside us and gave a faint nod. “Good turnout. Everyone who needed to be here is here,” he said.

His gaze swept the room. Not looking for anyone in particular—just taking stock. Measuring. Calculating.

I stood. “Solid enough. You find those cigars?”

He smirked, patting his coat pocket, then noticed Damien’s frustration.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked coldly.

Damien leaned back in his chair. “What am I supposed to do? Sit on my hands while those assholes are trying to fuck me?”

The Don’s mouth tightened, just barely. “Don’t give them an excuse to bring you in.”

“You want me to just sit around doing nothing?”

“Maybe work on your double entendres,” the Don said.