Page 23 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Liam

"You’re trying to influence the influencers. You’re playing with fire."

Karina scowls at me from the screen of my phone.

"Not my first time; definitely not my last." I lean back in the chair in my home office.

Her frown deepens. "My family is the Bratva and I’ve seen some insane things in my life." She firms her lips. "While this may not be life-threatening, there’s certainly a risk of reputation suicide that you’re heading toward."

I raise my shoulder. Maybe I should be more worried about what happens if what I’m doing comes out.

But in all honesty, I can’t be bothered.

"We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Make sure you continue to pay influencers to spin the news in a positive light, while you keep the trolls at bay. "

"It’s going to cost a lot."

If it were anyone else telling me so, I’d bite their head off. But Karina is Arpad Beauchamp’s wife. He happens to be a friend, as well as one of the Seven, and someone with whom I’ve done business in the past. So, I content myself with saying, "I have the money."

"It’s going to be double the budget I asked," she warns.

"I’ve set aside a billion dollars for this; is that enough?"

Her gaze widens. "You sure?"

I twist my lips. "Never more sure of anything than I am now."

She scans my features. "So, it’s like that."

I frown. "Like what?"

"Another alphahole bites the dust."

"What are you talking about?"

"Of course you’re in love. That’s why you want to marry her. I don’t know why I doubted that."

"I’m not in love with—" I press my lips together.

Her eyes gleam. "You were saying?"

"That you need to get on with what you were doing."

"Yes, boss." She smiles broadly. "As long as you’re footing the bill, I’m happy to keep the wolves at bay. But know this, it’s only a matter of time before one of them decides notoriety is better than money."

"Everyone has a price."

She tilts her head. "So I’ve heard people say. Then they fall in love and learn better."

"Never gonna happen to me."

This time she throws her head back and laughs. "Famous last words." She grins at me. "Also, give my husband a kiss. Not from you, but from me, of course." She disconnects.

I stare at the now empty screen. It’s another twenty-four hours before the rest of the guests are supposed to arrive. So, what did she mean by—

"Here’s the bridegroom. Still standing, ol’ chap?"

I swing around to find Sinclair Sterling prowling into the room. Which doesn’t surprise me. After all, his wife is here so it stands to reason he wouldn’t be far behind. With him are my brother Weston and Hunter Whittington.

"What are you guys doing here?" I scowl.

"Is that any way to speak to your groomsmen?” Hunter smirks.

"I didn’t ask any of you for advice."

"Which is why we volunteered it," Weston says in a cheerful tone. He ambles over and grips my shoulder. "Welcome to our merry tribe, bro. I’m glad you finally decided to change your ways."

"If by that, you mean, getting married, then I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I don’t plan on changing much. She’s the one who’s going to have to adjust."

Weston stares at me. "Wow, you really do believe your life is going to continue how it used to be before you got married?"

"Of course I do."

Hunter makes a choking sound and turns it into a coughing fit.

Sinclair covers his mouth with his palm, but his eyes are crinkled like he’s fighting not to laugh.

Weston opens and shuts his mouth, then quickly turns away from me and heads straight for my bar.

I’m glad they’re all so amused. Douchebags. "What are you up to?"

"What does it look like?" He reaches for my whiskey—my most expensive, unopened bottle of Macallan twenty-four-year-old reserve. He grabs my tumblers, lines them up on the counter, then proceeds to pour a splash of the whiskey into each of the glasses.

Sinclair and Hunter walk over and pick up one each.

Weston ambles over and slides one to me.

"It’s not even six p.m. yet,” I grumble."

"Best to knock it back, brother. You’re going to need it for the hard truths coming your way."

"And you’re the one who’s going to give them to me?"

My younger brother—a pain in the butt since the day he was born—heaves his bulk into a chair and places his feet on my table. On my antique Empire desk.

I scowl at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He swirls his drink in his glass then sniffs at it. "Considering you’re not having a stag do?”

"What’s that?" I sniff.

"You know, the kind of party where you invite your male friends and we all drink to your health and give you advice and warn you about the end of your existence as you know it—"

"You mean one of those urban male bonding traditions?" I look down my nose at my brother, who knocks back the whiskey in one go.

"Easy, tiger, that’s some vintage whiskey you have there."

"I’d recommend you do the same. You’re going to need it," Weston drawls.

"Eh?" I glance toward Sinclair, who’s wearing an expression of delight on his face, and Hunter, who seems mildly amused. Something tells me the evening is going to get a lot worse.

"How did you guys get here? I didn’t hear the sound of a plane."

"Clearly, your mind was elsewhere."

That’s twice in a row. Un-fucking-believable.

"You guys dicking me around? You flew commercial then took the boat from the mainland, didn’t you?"

"Hate to tell you, but no, we landed half an hour ago. You must have been too absorbed in whatever it is you were up to. Don’t feel too badly, it happens to the best of us, ol’ chap, " Sinclair murmurs.

I glower at them.

"You were caught up in your feelings, trying to process everything that’s happening. It’s just the beginning, bro. It’s normal,” Weston says with a big smile on his face. Motherfucker.

"Make another crack about my emotional state of being, and I’ll knock your heads together,” I growl.

Weston clicks his tongue. "Temper, temper."

"This is nothing. Wait until you find yourself smiling for no reason in the middle of the day," Sinclair adds.

Weston points his fingers at me and makes a popping sound like he's shooting an imaginary gun. I scoff. Clearly, he didn’t get the memo that we’re adults and past the kind of teenage nonsense he revels in.

I narrow my gaze on Sinclair, who takes another sip of his whiskey. At least, he didn’t knock it back. Unlike my brother, the philistine.

When Sinclair contents himself with a smile, my scowl grows deeper. "Don’t you have another asinine remark to add to the proceedings?" I snap.

"Moi?" Sinclair adopts an innocent expression. "I’m here to lend you moral support as you go through this rite of passage."

"Bull-fucking-shit." I snatch up my glass of whiskey, when from outside the window comes the unmistakable drone of a Learjet.

"Ooh, hear that?" Weston cups his palm behind his ear. "It’s the fucking cavalry."

I pale. "You mean—"

"Your closest friends."

"I don’t have any."

"The people who consider themselves close to you should be here shortly."

I pale.

"Are you talking about—"

"The Seven." He nods.

Of course, he’s talking about the seven of them including Weston and Sinclair, who together with five of their friends run 7A, the biggest financial services company in Europe.

"Always thought it sounded like you guys belong to a boy band. Also, they’re your friends, not mine."

"We’ve appropriated you for the duration of your wedding. Couldn’t let you walk up the aisle on your own, could we?" Sinclair chuckles.

"I have no problem tying the knot on my own. In fact, if it weren’t for this upcoming IPO, I’d have insisted we get married in the town hall."

"Aww, where’s the fun in that?" Weston places his elbows on the table. "Besides, it’s to your advantage to have us in the picture. It’s a signal to the world that you have the support of the most powerful men in the country."

It’s true, and it’s the main reason I decided to go through with this event.

That, and the fact the publicity will benefit Isla’s wedding planning company.

Which means, I don’t have a choice but to get through this evening.

Doesn’t mean I needed to stay sober. I turn in the direction of the bar, but Hunter’s already at my side.

He tips the whiskey bottle, pouring the golden liquid into my glass.

I knock it back. The liquor burns a trail down my gullet and explodes in my stomach. A warm glow radiates out to my extremities. I hold out my glass. "More," I growl.

He splashes more of the Macallan into my tumbler. I snatch it up, drain it, then thunk the tumbler on the table.

"You trying to get drunk so you can pass out before the party starts in earnest, eh?" Weston strokes his chin.

"Shouldn’t you be using your mental capacity for whatever surgery you’re planning next?

" Yep, my rat’s ass of a brother turned out to be much more useful than me when it came to his choice of profession.

Bastard’s a leading cardiac surgeon in his field.

Patients from around the world seek him out.

He’s saved the lives of many, including Michael’s wife.

The same Michael who just walked in the door.

He’s followed by Karina’s husband Arpad.

Michael scowls at someone. I follow his gaze to find he and Sinclair are engaged in some kind of a stare-off.

It’s no secret the two of them don’t like, so much as tolerate, each other.

By rights, they should have shot each other, considering it’s Michael’s father who kidnapped Sinclair—as well as my brother Weston and their five friends—when they were boys.

The incident changed the course of their lives…

And mine. None of them know about how it impacted me, and it’s not something I’m going to share with them, either.

Of course, Michael is not his father. And no one should be held responsible for the crimes of their sperm donor.

If Sinclair and Weston—who were more directly affected by Michael Senior’s actions—have been able to look past the repercussions of the incident to forge a tentative bond with the Sovranos, then I can do the same.

Of course, it helps that Michael and Sinclair are married to sisters who are insistent that the two men get along.

A dictate which seems to be working… Somewhat.

Michael jerks his chin in Sinclair’s direction.

Sinclair’s features are closed, but he tips his head in acknowledgement.

At which point, Michael turns his attention on me and snorts. "Lost your will to live yet, you pezzo di merda?"

"Gee, don’t all of you try to blow smoke up my arse all at once." I reach for the bottle of whiskey, but before I can get to it, Arpad is there.

He snatches it up. "Good whiskey."

Hunter joins us with two more tumblers that he places on my antique table.

"Fucking hell, at least use the coasters, you wankers," I grumble.

"That’s the least of your worries." Arpad tops up everyone's glasses, and by the time he gets to mine, the bottle is dry. "Sorry, ol’ chap."

The fuck?

I open my mouth to protest, but my best friend comes through. He appears at my elbow, a fresh bottle of Macallan—the thirty-six-year-old one. Good thing my pest of a brother didn’t find it earlier.

Hunter pours the liquid into my glass and keeps pouring until the liquor is in danger of overflowing. "Bottoms up."