“Then I’ll be there to catch you.”Tommy’s grip tightens.“That’s what brothers are for.”
I want to believe this time will be different.But the doubt runs deeper than belief.
"I've done what I can here.The rest is on you."Tommy moves toward the door."I've got to make some phone calls, smooth out some kinks in our plans."He pauses, looking back at me with an expression that says he knows he's leaving me on the edge of a cliff."Promise me you'll get some rest."
“Yes, sir,” I fake-salute him, making a promise I know might be a lie.
Alone again, I stare at the bottle of Jameson.
My hand reaches for it.
28
Shelby
The first thing I register is pain.A throbbing behind my eyes that pulses in time with my heartbeat.The second is the taste of stale whiskey and regret coating my tongue like ash.The third is the uncomfortable angle of my neck, bent at a position that’s going to hurt for days.
I’m slumped over the desk.
The realization filters through slowly, each detail clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle.The empty bottle of Jameson lies on its side near my hand.Papers are crumpled beneath my cheek.The light pouring through the windows has shifted from the bright glow of noon to the amber wash of fading day.
How long have I been out?
I try to lift my head, and the room tilts dangerously.My stomach lurches.I grip the edge of the desk and force myself to breathe through the nausea, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
“You look like death warmed over, son.”
The voice cuts through the fog in my skull.Authoritative.Carrying the weight of decades of command.
I turn my head slowly, every movement an exercise in controlled agony.
Jack Boyle stands in the doorway of my office.At sixty-two, he’s still an imposing figure.His full head of hair used to be black.His tanned scalp, visible beneath a receding hairline, contrasts sharply with the silver hair swept back from his face.Those icy blue eyes, the same ones I see in the mirror every morning, study me with an expression I can’t define.Disappointment, maybe.Or something worse.
Understanding.
“Dad.”My voice comes out like gravel scraped across stone.“What are you doing here?”
He crosses the room with the measured stride of a man who’s commanded a business and a criminal empire for decades.He picks up the empty Jameson bottle, examines it briefly, then sets it aside with a soft clink.
“Tommy called me.”He lowers himself into the chair that my brother occupied a couple of hours ago.Or was it longer?Time has lost all meaning.“Said you might need someone to talk to.”
“I’m fine.”
“I found you passed out on the desk.You’re reeking of whiskey, with an operation launching in...”He checks his watch.“Twenty minutes.That’s not fine, son.That’s drowning.”
Drowning.Maybe I’ve been drowning for years, and Serena was the only thing keeping my head above water.
I force myself upright, ignoring the protest of every muscle in my body.The room sways, then steadies.My hand finds the pitcher of water I keep on my desk.I pour a tall glass and drain it in three long swallows.It helps.Marginally.
“The operation,” I manage.“I need to be ready.”
My wife needs me to be ready.Damn it all to hell!
“You need to be sober first.”Jack’s voice is flat.“And you need to get your head straight before you step out.Because right now, you’re a liability that will get people killed.”
Dad’s words stab my chest like ragged knives.Each one precisely aimed at the wound I’ve been trying to drown in alcohol.I want to argue, defend myself.But he’s right.
I’ve spent the last hours doing exactly what I swore I wouldn’t do.Falling apart.Letting fear win.Becoming the broken man I’ve always been terrified of becoming.
