2. Easton

Chapter two

Easton

K evin, the orange tabby that thinks he owns the place, jumps on my desk in one graceful move, demanding attention of everyone in the room. It's just two of us—me and Al, our family's accountant, but three if you count Kevin. Kevin would definitely insist on being counted.

Al is not amused and raises an eyebrow at the cat but continues on as he has for the last hour. "...and if you'll flip to page forty-seven, you'll see figures for the third quarter of the current fiscal year." I pick up Kevin, the literal trash dumpster cat who thinks he's king, and set him in my lap even though I'll have orange hair all over my suit. It's just now March and everything's blooming, but the wind and the rain keep everyone inside. Cold droplets fall against the sparkling window panes. Even with the rain, I'd still rather be out there with my men than in here dealing with this bullshit.

Al pulls out a white handkerchief from somewhere and wipes his sweaty brow with it.

It's not hot in here. Tracey, the lady who's run our house since I was in diapers, keeps the place at a constant seventy-one degrees all year long, but I'm suffocating. I pull at the collar of my shirt as Al brings that white square of fabric back up to his temples. Al's just a sweaty guy, I guess. Although maybe it's just the thought of how the FBI would be hitting pay dirt if they found this giant document he's printed twice for some reason.

If that's the case, then he's definitely in the wrong fucking business.

We're sitting in Dad's office going over all the businesses. ALL of them. The little ones we run bold as day–run-down laundromats, tiny donut shops, shitty vape places–and the big ones that aren't quite so public.

Dutifully, I flip to page forty-seven. Kevin bats at the paper. Silently, I push his paw away. Like the forty-six pages before, it's filled with tables of numbers in 12-point font. Al has his eyes glued to the book-sized packet of papers in his hands. Quietly, I flip through what feels like a hundred more identical pages. I have no fucking clue what any of this means. How the hell did I end up in charge of this shit?

I open my mouth to interrupt Al when my phone rings, saving me from being the biggest jackass to one of my dad's oldest friends.

"Sorry, Al. It's Mikey," I apologize and set an annoyed Kevin on the floor, moving away from the desk to the window that overlooks Dad's pool. Michelangelo Matthews has been my right hand for years. We grew up together. He hated when we call him Mikey as a kid, but now he leans into it. Why he never changed that stupid first name, God only knows. Lord knows he spent enough of his life getting shit for it. I guess that's what happens when your mom has you at fifteen–you get named for a cartoon.

"Easton, we've got a problem," says Mikey's hushed voice on the other end. Normally, I'd bitch about being interrupted but this is a literal gift–a fucking excuse to delay all of this until I can push it off on my younger brother, Samuel.

"What's going on?"

"She's pregnant."

"Lila?" I ask, confused. "Yeah, I fucking know. You're the one who knocked her up. You tell us about it every day."

"No, asshole. The owner. Fucking huge pregnant."

The owner? I'm trying to make the connection in my brain when Mikey makes it for me. "The florist who won't pay what they owe."

I shake my head even though he can't see me. "No way. The florist is an old man. Dad told me before he went in for surgery. Old Man Grayson. His first name is Neil. Maybe she's just some clerk?"

Debts are common in this line of work. But this debt was something else–half a million to a florist. Why Dad let Grayson live this long without at least taking some of the debt out on his flesh is beyond me. Dad isn't a softie. He'd always tell me, "Business is business," but maybe he'd lost his edge toward the end. Another fucking thing I hadn't been taking care of, apparently. Fucking son of the year, I am.

"Where the fuck is Grayson?"

"I don't know, man, but this chick claims she's Grayson and the owner of this shithole."

I don't ask for any more details. I don't even fucking care. Mikey could be bitching about a hangnail right now, and I'd still show up for it because I'm not sitting through this meeting any longer. "Give me fifteen," I tell Mikey, and end the call. I turn around and meet Al's eyes.

"Sorry, Al. There's a situation I need to take care of."

Al nods and begins to gather up his things. "Don't worry, son. I'll be back by when that fancy brother of yours is around. He'll pay attention."

"I was paying attention," I lie, amused that he noticed.

Al raises an eyebrow.

I shrug. "Samuel is the one with all the degrees."

Al makes a noise with his tongue. "Doesn't make you any less smart, Easton. Holden put all this on you for a reason. He had faith you'd be the alpha the whole family needs."

His words catch me off guard. The shorter man puts a hand on my shoulder as he turns to go. "You and your brothers…you'll make your dad proud. I know it."

He doesn't wait for me to answer. He steps into the hall and takes a right, letting himself out.

I'm sure Samuel, with his MBA, and Daniel, with his acceptance into med school, will make the Degarmo family proud. Me, on the other hand, I'll just keep being the king of this city's underbelly that I was raised to be.

"Tracey! I've got some business to take care of. I'll be back later," I yell through the house as I head toward the garage.

I step into the small arms room right before the garage door and suck in a breath. We have staff and men for lots of things, but this–this room is all mine. I keep up with the cleaning and maintenance of each weapon in this room. It's usually locked, but today Esther, one of Kevin's lady friends, has made herself at home. She is laying on her side atop one of the shorter shelves, flicking her tail back and forth as she cleans a paw. She pauses for a second to flick her eyes over me, decides I'm not important, and returns to grooming. Not like I pay for her special wet food or treats or toys that she ignores or anything. I shoo her off the shelf and out the door. Cat hair on a suit is one thing. Cat hair inside my weapons is another. She leaves with an annoyed "reowwww".

"A clean weapon will never let you down," Dad would tell us growing up when we bitched about his ridiculous rules. He would always make us sit down and clean our weapons at the end of the night, no matter how much shit we'd just been through.

I run a hand over the racks of weapons, my fingers trailing across the backs of each one until I finally decide what I need for this little trip. Florist shops are small. I'll have to get up close to kill the old man and maybe the chick too, if she gets in the way. I select two weapons–a .380 for my ankle and 9mm for the holster at my side. Then it's time to meet Mikey for some business that I'm actually capable of handling: debt collection.