Chapter Thirty-Three

“Dom,” Tobias calls from down the hall before appearing at my bedroom door. Lowering my hardback, he eyes the title. “Freshening up on history?”

“I think of it as more of a ‘what not to do’ and ‘how not to get caught’ for dummies.”

He grins. “Get dressed. I’m taking you out for dinner.”

“I am dressed,” I look down at my T-shirt and jeans, my muddy boots discarded somewhere on the floor beside my bed.

He grimaces. “You don’t have anything nice?”

I quirk a brow. “Have we met?”

“Good point, come on.” He jerks his chin toward his bedroom, which sits catty corner to mine. “I’ll lend you a shirt . . . and pants . . . and shoes,” he chuckles.

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not,” he flicks a finger toward me, “they’re not going to let you in wearing that.”

“Then I’ll pass,” I raise my book to resume reading.

“We’re celebrating, little brother, and I’m not in the mood to fight about how,” he grumbles. “So do me a fucking favor and just borrow some clothes.”

“Fine,” I acquiesce, following him into his room. Taking a step in, I glance around. It’s the same as it’s always been, same furniture, same setup. The difference is that he doesn’t live here anymore and hasn’t for nearly a decade. Most of those years, I’ve only looked across the hall to see it pitch dark and empty. “What are we celebrating?”

“You’re leaving in a week for college. That calls for celebration.”

“Which includes fine dining? You sure this party is for me?” I snark.

“Maybe for me a little too. Is that so wrong?”

“It is if I have to look like I stepped out of Men’s Warehouse,” I quip, dubiously eyeing the luggage on his bed.

“You’re not selling out, Dom. It’s just a fucking dress code.” He flips open his luggage, and I cringe when I spot a cashmere sweater.

“You seriously wear this shit?” I pilfer through his suitcase alongside him.

“Yes, I do, and the difference in feel and fit is incredible.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Why?” He tilts his head. “There are perks to being a millionaire, and it’s time you see the upside, or in our case, the flipside.”

“You don’t think I’m ready for MIT,” I conclude.

He pauses before plucking a tightly rolled shirt from a row of them at the bottom of his suitcase. “I don’t want you feeling like you don’t belong.”

“Let me save you the suspense,” I widen my eyes, “I won’t blend well.”

“Dom, I’m not telling you to change, but things will be different—the people, the norms, the culture. It’s a different environment.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, hence the acceptance letter. I know how to pronounce big words, too. Don’t worry about me. Better yet, stop worrying about me.”

He scoffs. “You act like it’s a choice.”

“It is. I’m all grown up now, so you can brush the dust from your hands. You’re all done. I can take it from here.”

“So easy, huh, this game of life? I’m halfway through my twenties and still have no idea how to handle certain situations. Ever hear the saying ‘age is nothing but a number?’”

“Yeah, but I think you’re more on a ‘grass is greener’ trip right now.”

“It can be. Don’t be so damned prideful little brother. I didn’t even know how to properly fasten a necktie until I was in prep school. The man who taught me saw potential in me and altered some of the instilled perceptions I had about myself on a night that changed my life. So, just put the fucking shirt on, and try to keep an open mind.”

“Fine,” I snatch the shirt from his hand.

“You should iron it,” he adds, shrugging on his suit jacket.

“That’s a fuck no,” I grumble.

He raises his palms in surrender as I fist off my shirt and slide the collared atrocity on.

Pinstripes.

Shoot me now.

We’re closer in build than we’ve ever been, so it fits well enough. Trying not to gag, I shed my jeans before pulling on a pair of his chinos. When my shirt is tucked in, Tobias’s expression resembles something akin to pride as he reads my discomfort and chuckles. “Okay, maybe we skip the bow I had picked out for your hair. Try not to look so miserable. We’re going to have fun.” His eyes dip. “Shoes too.”

He pulls some loafers from his bag, and I jerk my chin. “Not. Fucking. Happening.”

“Wear them,” he muses, “I promise none of your friends will see you.”

“Sean’s not coming?”

“No, Tyler either. You’ll be alone in college . . . at least at first,” he reminds me.

The weight of that truth doesn’t sit well, and he pounces on it. “That, that right there, is the whole point of tonight.”

“Thought it was a celebration?” I start to unbutton the shirt. “Not really interested in your little experiment.”

He swats my hands to keep me from undressing and sighs my name in frustration.

“Here’s an idea,” I mutter, “how about just allowing me to go through shit to figure it out for myself?”

With the snap of a cufflink, his patience follows. “Because you’ve gone through enough on your fucking own!” The light in his eyes dims as he runs a hand through his hair in exasperation.

“All right, big brother, no need to get emotional.” I flash him all my teeth, and he glares at me in return.

Three hours later, Tobias lays down a card for the three-thousand-dollar dinner bill—mostly due to his various wine selections. We’ve literally dined like our namesake. Our glasses never got close to empty—wine or water—as we were catered to like infants.

“So?” Tobias prompts, looking pleased while sipping his wine.

“So what?”

“So, was that not the best fucking fare you’ve ever eaten?”

“Sure.” I shrug.

He tosses his pressed linen napkin onto his empty plate as silverware clinks around us, along with hushed conversation. Looking relaxed, it’s clear he’s in his element. After thanking the waiter for topping off his wine, Tobias pins me with his stare. “We grew up gutter rats, and you just ate from a tasting menu designed by one of the best chefs in the country. Why are you so pissed about it?” He shakes his head. “Tell me, Dom, what does impress you?”

“A woman’s flexibility,” I smirk.

He sips his wine, unimpressed. “That’s Sean talking.”

“I’ll tell you what doesn’t impress me—wasting three thousand dollars on fermented grapes and sautéed vegetables.”

“That’s Delphine, through and through,” he dismisses, “tell me, Dom, where is your voice?”

I glare over at him.

“Don’t be offended that you’re a chameleon. You change colors to blend with the company you keep, and it only proves just how intelligent you are. But you’ve allowed others to give you the impression and current idea of what you deserve. You’ve been dodging looks your whole life,” he surmises. “The glares from Delphine for being a reminder of our parents’ deaths and the orphans she was forced to take in. The attention and cruelty you garnered for being a poor kid wearing ill-fitting hand-me-downs. The looks you draw now for lashing out because your grudge against the world is so obvious . . . Jesus, you haven’t even noticed the three women to our left who’ve been eye fucking us for the last twenty minutes. So, while you talk a good game—and have a healthy amount of confidence to back it up—you don’t exactly know who you are yet outside of the club.”

He leans forward, eyes intent as I rake my fork over my last bite of pureed cauliflower.

“That’s okay, Dom. It takes time—a lifetime for some—but it requires truly living and experiencing the world outside of books through your own perspective. Leaving Triple Falls is your chance to discover yourself outside our mutual purpose and decide what kind of man you want to be.” He pauses, knowing he has my attention. “I’m sharing this with you because I felt completely fucking lost my first year in France. I had no idea who I was. You’ve surpassed me by miles in some respects, but I’m worried because you haven’t evolved past the limits you were made to believe you have. You have to try, Dom, for yourself. I’m scared of how lonely you’ll be if you don’t.”

“I don’t get lonely,” I counter.

“Because it’s been such a constant state for you that you don’t recognize it anymore. You prefer isolation because it’s safe.”

I remain mute as he leans in. “You can talk to me about this, brother.”

“Why?” I snap defensively. “Because you’re managing to pull off the scam so well?”

“No more than anyone else here is. But yes, I’m a chameleon and will remain one, and so will you.”

“Is this dinner sponsored by overused slogans? Now it’s ‘fake it until you make it?’”

“No,” he grits out. “Always fucking fake it. We’ve already made it, but if people catch wind of that, they’ll only try to drag us down—make our lives harder out of envy, spite, or both. So, keep the grudge but hide the fangs. But make no mistake,” he warns, “most interactions between humans are just a formality. When people ask how you are, most don’t give a fuck, and that’s all that interaction with outsiders is, Dom—a formality. So, don’t waste energy, time, or effort on the people with whom you’re only meant to exchange formalities. It’s when you can’t fake it with someone who consistently shows up for you without motive that you’ll know they’re deserving of all three.”

I can’t help my grin. “This monologue of yours is a bit cliché, don’t you think? Like a mobster delivering life advice before getting whacked or run over by a milk truck.”

He shakes his head, tossing in an exaggerated eye roll. “Your constant vitriol is exhausting, brother.”

“I learned from the best, and it’s not like this,” I glance around, “is really that much of a stretch for you. You like this atmosphere and dressing that way,” I point out.

He shrugs. “I like expensive wine and clothes, and things we never imagined we could ever afford and now can, so why aren’t you at least allowing a little of that in? You haven’t spent a fucking dime since we added zeros to our net worth. At the very least, you need to order a new fucking mattress, but you haven’t, and I know why. Look at me, Dom.”

I snap my eyes to his.

“Press through your mindset limit and decide your own potential. Once you figure that out, we’ll forge a fire so fucking big—no one will ever be able to overlook it or escape it.”

Twisting his glass stem, he stares at it contemplatively. “It’s laughable now how comfortable most of the men of our time are,” he ponders. “The men in your history book who really did something with their lives and raised actual fucking swords in defense of their beliefs. Who spilled blood in the streets without flinching, declared themselves outlaws, and sacrificed every comfort while fearlessly fighting to the death. While more civilized negotiations have become part of the progression from Neanderthal to the modern man—who use brain over brute force—there’s something to be said for those men of the past. I’m pretty sure those trailblazers weren’t getting regular mani-pedis.”

We both chuckle as he plucks the bottle and fills our glasses, a buzz humming steadily through me. “So, take this time to live some life outside of the club because one day in the near future, we’re going to be fighting in the streets—maybe in more expensive clothes, armed with better, foolproof plans, but fighting nonetheless.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, taking a hearty sip. He grins as he lifts a finger for the waiter, who nearly trips over himself getting to our table.

“Yes, sir?”

Tobias pushes the check back toward him. “We’re going to have dessert.”

“Which one, sir?”

“Every selection on the menu. We’re celebrating,” he boasts proudly. “My brother is going to attend MIT.”

“Ah,” the man barely spares me a glance. “Excellent, sir, congratulations.” The waiter takes off as we eye each other over the table.

“I don’t think he gave a fuck,” I muse.

“He doesn’t,” Tobias retorts jovially, “he’s probably sweating about how much of a tip we’re going to leave. Even a shrink shows up for money. Now look around.”

I do. My last stop is the table of women currently looking our way. Making it a point to, I catch the come fuck me eyes of one of them as Tobias speaks. “They’re no better than you are, Dom. Not fucking one of them. You’re the biggest threat in this room. That’s a fact, so believe it.”

The woman’s eyes dart away before I turn back to see him lifting his glass to toast. “To the long game.”

“To the long game,” I parrot as we clink glasses, the buzz intensifying.

“Let’s play hard, brother,” he winks before we drink.

Glass still tilted, Tobias’s eyes light over the rim as he catches sight of someone over my shoulder. Tabling his wine, he abruptly stands. “Ah, finally, I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

“Sorry about that,” the man replies, approaching our table with a mischievous gleam in his eyes as they shake hands. My own eyes trail over the man in recognition as he shifts his focus on me. Exuding confidence, he extends a hand in offering. “Finally, the prodigal brother. Nice to meet you, Dominic.”

Tobias beams with pride. “Dom, this is—”

“Congressman Monroe,” I say, already standing, extending my hand and shooting Tobias a confused look as we shake. In response, he gives me a conspiratorial wink.

Four hours and countless glasses later, Tobias turns just after exiting and slams me into closing the door of the town car he called after our vision blurred and doubled.

Releasing me, Tobias stumbles further back into the yard, drawing from his hip in declaration. “En garde!”

Gripping his nonexistent sword, foot stretched in front of him in a lunge pose, he arches his opposite arm over his head, fingers dangling above his crown. When I just stare at him, his shoulders drop as his expression goes limp. “It means draw your sword.”

“I know what it means, but drawing my sword will only embarrass you in front of the handmaidens,” I snort.

“All I’m hearing is that you’re too impotent to draw your steel,” he taunts.

“Don’t project, brother, I hear it happens to all men with age, and I’m more of a hand-to-hand man,” I declare, charging toward him. Feigning a successful dodge of the thrust of his invisible sword, I tackle him into the grass.

“Oof,” he goes down, roaring with laughter until I gain the advantage and deliver an over-playful bitch slap.

His eyes flare in warning as he knocks me off. “Poor form, Dom. This is a gentlemen’s fight.”

We both stumble back to our feet, and I raise my sword and mimic his posture. “Never going to be a gentleman, but touché, or whatever the fuck,” I slur. We drunkenly shuffle back and forth across the yard and up the porch stairs, clashing invisible swords while knocking over two of Delphine’s clay-potted plants. As Tobias reaches for the screen door, I lurch forward, delivering the death blow, burying my sword until my knuckles hit his chest.

He grips his wound, eyes widening in mock surprise. “So ruthless, brother. A street fighter to your core, right through the fucking heart,” he sniggers with pride.

“Gutter-rattith-forith-thou-killith,” I smirk.

Opening the screen door, Tobias shakes his head, smile disappearing, eyes narrowing when he sees the state of me. “You ruined my two-hundred-dollar shirt.”

“I consider it an improvement and deserved punishment for spending that much on a fucking shirt.”

“You’re a teenage millionaire, Dom. Spring for a new pack of V-necks and BVDs.” Eyes glazed by drink, he pats himself down. “Do you have your key? I left mine with the valet.”

“Nope.”

“Fuck,” he drops his head before rapping on the door. Not a second later, the porch light comes on, and it opens, Delphine’s narrowing eyes darting between us.

“Look, Dom, it’s the milk truck!” Tobias roars before we both throw our heads back, laughing hysterically.

Sighing out “imbéciles,” Delphine widens the door to let us in. Scrutinizing us briefly, she adjusts her robe before turning to retreat to her bedroom.

“Non, Tatie, join us,” Tobias calls after her, shrugging off his jacket. “I’m making breakfast for both of you.”

“Non,” Delphine protests.

“It’s time,” Tobias says, unbuttoning one of his sleeves and rolling it up as he and Delphine share a tense but silent exchange.

She nods toward me, “he is drunk.”

“Then that makes three of us,” Tobias snarks, “put on some coffee so we can talk before the rest of his peanut gallery arrives to collect him.”

“Time for what?” I ask, taking the rattle stool beneath the counter as they start to silently work together. Anticipation builds as Tobias glances over at Delphine, and they exchange another loaded look before he palms the counter, his words for me. “It’s time you know your history. How and where it all truly began—and where it’s going.”

It was one of the handful of times I’ve ever been drunk, but I haven’t forgotten a second. In the hours that followed, I sobered considerably with every passing minute, sipping coffee while Delphine revealed my parent’s history—details of whom they were involved with and in before I was born. She added specifics about her own path and what eventually led her to Triple Falls. Minute by minute, my mind became more blown by how much they both had been keeping from me. The details of Delphine’s sordid past helped me understand so much about her and why she is the way she is.

Tobias laid out his plans, his own revelations taking me aback. Especially the secret that the congressman who taught him how to fasten a necktie is an original raven Tobias attended prep with. An original on the fast track to becoming president—and still is.

That morning, Tobias trusted me with his most heavily guarded secrets and his vision for our long game. The way he is trusting me now with the fate of the club.

He’ll never forgive you.

Guilt swallows me whole at the act of betrayal I just took part in because, as of right now, one of our originals is on a plane headed for France.

The reason? I’m having my own brother shadowed, his whereabouts reported, so I can continue to fuck our enemy’s daughter.

If Tobias spots him, he’ll immediately be tipped off that something is amok—along with knowing exactly who ordered his tail—which will only hasten his return. On the off chance he doesn’t catch it, at least I’ll know if what he’s telling me is true. If the real reason for his long absence is to find his birth father.

If I’m caught, Tobias will suffer the worst kind of betrayal and heartbreak at my hands. Something he doesn’t fucking deserve.

Remorse consumes me whole as I shoot off a text that says it all—that I miss him. That I have regrets about the way things are between us. That I’m trying. That no matter what he’s doing or how far apart our current paths are, one thing forever remains the same.

Always brothers.

My phone instantly buzzes with his reply—a reply that has my throat burning.

B: Miss you too, little brother.

He’ll never forgive you.