Brutal Power: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Bianco Crime Family)
Chapter 39

The law office is quiet. We haven’t been taking on much work lately because of things with the organization, and most of my employees are either working from home or doing half days. Which is fine with me, since I know they’ll all step up and work hard when the time comes, but right now billed hours are down, and the place is sleepy.

Which is why I can hear Seamus stomping over a solid thirty seconds before he shows up at my door. My secretary went home already so there’s nobody to stop him from barging inside, looking like he wants to wrap piano wire around my neck and squeeze until my eyes bulge.

“We need to talk.” He walks over to my desk and slaps a folder down. “Explain this.”

I stare at him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He steps back, crosses his arms, and gives me an expectant stare. I rub my face, sick of the theatrics, but I flip open the folder anyway.

It’s a bank statement. “Numbers aren’t my strong suit,” I mumble as I flip through the pages.

“Don’t be a fucking prick, you’re a tax lawyer. Third page, halfway down. There’s a very big transaction.”

I don’t need to turn to the third page to know exactly what he’s talking about. I knew this moment would come the second I moved money around. “It’s a legitimate expense.”

He throws up his hands. “Two million fucking dollars from the organization’s accounts is legitimate? For fucking what? We don’t move that much cash unless it’s absolutely important, and we definitely don’t do it without discussing things first.”

I lean back in my chair and rub my face. Dad never would’ve fucking consulted us when making decisions—this committee of equals thing only started when I took over. Seamus and the others still haven’t completely accepted that I’m the boss and I have the power to make unilateral decisions, even ones involving enormous sums of money.

“You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

“Where did it go, Brody? Who did you pay?”

“Don’t press.”

He laughs and starts pacing. “The fuck is going on? Even Declan and Nolan are starting to notice. Molly said something to me this morning about how you’ve been distant lately. Is it the fucking wife? Did you take money because she’s running up credit card bills or something?”

“She’s rich, you dumbass.” I stare at the ceiling, annoyed that I’m having this conversation again. “Listen to me. This money is important. I paid a contractor to do a job. An extremely important job. One which very well might save my life. I can’t tell you more right now because there are too many moving pieces, but I need you to trust me.”

Seamus squints and rubs his chin. “You paid a contractor? As in a hitman?”

“Something like that. I need patience, bro.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. I can tell my explanation took some of his steam away. But he finally shakes his head. “That’s not good enough. Two million is too much.”

“This two million might end up buying ten times that.” I hate this damn position I’m in. I want to tell him everything, to make him understand my deal with Santoro, and how I’m going to pull all the strings together and tie a nice lovely noose around the old Italian bastard’s neck, but I can’t risk saying anything. Not right now. Not when Seamus is still so emotional about this situation. I’m not sure how he’ll react if he understands just how narrow this knife’s edge path I’m following really is.

It’s a dangerous game balancing crime family factions against each other.

Seamus takes a deep breath. I can tell he’s struggling to maintain his patience, but my brother’s never been the kind of guy who’s good at squashing his emotions.

“I get it, you’re involved with the Biancos now, and that means shit’s ten times more dangerous than it was before. I tried to get you to see reason when you started in with this war shit earlier, but now it’s like I don’t even know what the hell you’re doing. We’re supposed to be a family, Brody.”

“I swear, when the time’s right, I’ll tell you everything. I just need you to trust me for a little bit longer.”

He shakes his head and looks disgusted. “At least with Dad, I could understand why he didn’t tell us anything, but I thought you were going to be different. I thought we were going to be better. That’s why we believe in you.”

My gut clenches. That breaks my fucking heart, the way he says it, because on the one hand, I want to be like Dad. I want the power, the stoicism, the intensity, the blind loyalty. But I know what Seamus means, and I have no interest in boxing him out of my decision-making process. Except for this one time.

“We are going to be better, and that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

Seamus only shakes his head and turns his back on me. I almost wish he’d stay and argue—at least then he’s still engaging with me and hasn’t completely given up. But the way his shoulders slump tells me all I need to know.

I’m left alone in my office for a while. I should try to get some work done, but I can’t seem to concentrate, and I don’t want to work up the energy to commute into the main office downtown.

There’s a knock at the door and I hope it’s Seamus back with a vengeance, but instead it’s Mom with a cup of tea. “I thought you might need this.”

“Thanks.”

She places it down in front of me and I take a big sip. I can tell there’s something on her mind, and I’m worried when she sits down in the chair across from my desk.

Mom doesn’t come in here much. At least not if she can avoid it. I watch her glance around, her eyes lingering on all the changes I’ve made, and I feel like shit all over again. I can see the weight of time pressing down on her and the hole in her chest where Dad used to be. Seeing me here behind this desk where her husband and partner of thirty years used to spend all his time must be really hard.

“You’re doing it again,” she says, her tone very soft, and I have to lean forward to hear her right.

“I’m doing what?”

She sighs and smooths her jeans. “Seamus wouldn’t tell me what’s going on, but I got the gist. You’re taking it all on.”

“Mom—”

But she cuts me off. When she looks up, it’s the mother I remember from growing up: fierce and strong, the woman who took no bullshit, but also picked us up, wiped off the dirt, and soothed all the hurt away. I fucking miss those days sometimes.

“Ever since you started working with your father, all you’ve ever done is try to hold it all inside. And in some ways, it’s been good. I remember one day we were at the pool and you kept screaming and yelling because the goggles you wanted to wear hurt your ears and pulled your hair, but you also refused to go into the pool without them.” She smiles slightly at the memory. “I wanted to kill you. There was nothing I could do and you refused to calm down. Eventually your dad showed up and he started asking you questions and making jokes and it distracted you enough to make you forget all about the goggles, but that’s how you were. Every feeling was a big feeling. And I know that boy’s still in there, only you keep him hidden away, and it’s not healthy, Brody. It’s not healthy at all.”

I pull in a deep breath and lean back in my chair. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to remember that day, but there’s a hole in my memory where that afternoon used to be. I have other snippets of being a kid, other summer days covered in sunscreen and running barefoot through grass. Flashes of painful memories, like that time I stepped on a bee, or that time I fell off the swings and broke my arm, but also flashes of good memories, like when I did my first flip off the diving board.

Mom’s right, I was an emotional kid, but I’m not a child anymore. I experience everything, and sometimes I struggle to suppress those big, overwhelming feelings, but it’s part of the job now.

“I’m only trying to be like Dad,” I tell her, leaning forward. The feeling of the steam from the tea lifts up against my chin. “He kept it all together, didn’t he?”

Mom gives me a strange look. “Do you think your father ran this family alone?”

“No, of course not, but⁠—”

“Honestly, Brody. Your father had help all the time.”

I sit back and raise my eyebrows. “What are you talking about? I remember he was always alone in here.”

She laughs at me and shakes her head. “That’s because you were a little kid most of the time, but when you were growing up, your father had a rotating cast of idiot friends that always had his back. Some of them died, others moved away, but he always had advisors.” She grins and looks over at the bookshelf toward a picture of the whole family, Dad looming over us like a proud giant. “Your father would rant and rave after you all went to sleep about whatever was on his mind. He was overflowing all the time.”

That hits me like a hammer. I sit back, almost too stunned to process. “But he always seemed so calm.”

“That’s because he dealt with his problems. Maybe not in the healthiest way, since I think the stress got to him, but he still dealt with it. But, Brody, if you keep on smothering yourself, I’m worried you’re going to have a harder time than he did. Dad wasn’t alone, and you aren’t either.”

Mom gets up, squeezes my shoulder, and leaves the office. I stare at the wall, trying to match up what she just told me with the memories of my old man, and maybe it’s starting to make some sense. He had his captains and his lieutenants, and they were constantly having little meetings in here. It’s totally possible that I made a whole lot of assumptions about my old man, but I never really knew him, not like an adult would.

That doesn’t change my situation. I’m not keeping things from Seamus because I’m trying to shoulder the whole burden alone—I’m doing it because the fewer people that know my plan, the safer it’ll be.

I can’t change course now. I’ll have to keep on alone for a little while. But now I feel like I see a path forward based on a more realistic picture of my father, and based on the way I want to be as a man and a leader of my family.