Today I'mthirty-eight years old. Well, yesterday. It’s past midnight now, so I suppose that just makes it Christmas. It’s past time for celebration, anyway. If I felt I had anything to revel in.
Thirty–eight years old, and what do I have to show for it? An empire, plus more money and power than any one man should hold alone. That weight is not something I bear easily. I have no partner, no heir, only a tenuous grasp on a power I don't dare believe I deserve.
And more expensive vodka than I could safely consume in a lifetime, so I guess there’s that.
I take a long pull from my glass, the burn sliding down my throat, then place it empty with a clack on the side table next to my chair. There’s a fire going in the mantle, but even that does nothing to soothe me. I watch the flames consume the logs, spitting white, then blue, then orange and red licks of flames, crackling and smoldering. I imagine putting my hand in the heat and wonder how long it would take to burn, then consume me entirely.
I wanted to be left alone for the remainder of the night, and in this vein, asked my half-brother to send away any visitors. This was all for naught, though, as he strides into my office.
“You've got a birthday present downstairs,” he says. He stops next to me and nudges my shoe with the toe of his own until I turn away from the fire to look at the half grin on his sharp face.
“It's not my birthday anymore,” I say.
“Christmas gift, then.”
“Tell them I don’t want it.”
“Even if it’s a Morelli girl?”
I stiffen, watching Sasha with a still gaze. He just smirks, hands stuffed in the pockets of his slacks. Smug fucker.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Which one do you think? The little one who's captured your attention.”
I roll my eyes and get up, the leather chair groaning as I do. Alexei Orlov—better known as Sasha—is the closest person to me, which has its disadvantages. Namely, he’s too observant, and I can never keep a secret from him.
“She hasn’t been here for months.”
“Well, she is now. Wearing a tacky Christmas sweater, even. More festive than her usual style, but she can pull it off,” Sasha says. This image he paints is so discordant from the picture of her that lives in my mind. I almost think he’s lying about her showing up here after months away, but my brother is not cruel.
“She's not here for me.” I walk toward the window to study the street. It’s more productive to watch the cars drive by than it would be torturing myself watchingher.
“Come on, it's fate she'd show up here tonight right when you were about to put yourself out of your misery.”
“I should kill you for talking to me like that,” I say over my shoulder. Sasha winks.
“Your mom would be too mad at you.”
“And yours would berelieved,” I mutter, which only amuses him further.
Fate.
Sasha has always been too excitable about things like fate and destiny. Sometimes he reads my horoscope to me over breakfast. I blame his mother, the kindest of my father’s secret conquests, and the only one to get a bastard child from the arrangement. God knows our father would have beaten Sasha's fantastical dreams out of him had Sasha been permitted to live with us.
As it was, Sasha’s status as the disgraceful Orlov bastard kept him safe from my father’s cruelty.
“Fate that I watch her go home with another twenty-something. Best present I could imagine.” My voice drips with sarcasm, but Sasha raises an eyebrow, ever aware that I’m more than happy to torture myself watching her until she's danced away with another beautiful young someone. With the new year, though, I ought to put all that behind me. No more watching her, no more thinking of her.
This will be the year I forget about Marianna Morelli. It will be my New Year’s resolution.
“I could call her up here. She knows this is your territory, the least she could do is say hello. It's common courtesy.”
He’s right, and if she were anyone else, I would've demanded their audience on their first visit. But she’s not anyone else. She’s the Shadow of Boston. The youngest Morelli. A menace to my peace.
"Don't bother. Let the girl have her fun.” I sulk across the room to pour myself another drink. She doesn't need an old fuck raining on her simple solace, getting lost in the music and bodies.
I pour Sasha one too, then take a silent sip, glancing one last time at the fire still crackling. Despite promising myself Iwouldn’t, I lead us wordlessly out of my office, and down the hall to the elevator which deposits us on the second floor.
