The assumption stings worse because it’s earned. They didn’t bother calling because they assumed I wouldn’t show unless it benefited me. And why wouldn’t they assume that? Because that’s the man I’ve become.
“I’m assuming Dad gave Madison my number. She is our half-sister,” he continues with a calm that annoys the shit out of me.
“The only sister I have is Lillianna,” I bark, even as my hypocrisy clogs in my throat. I’ve given Sebastian plenty of reasons to disown me, yet here I am, rejecting blood I’ve never met.
“She is Dad’s kid.”
“Because he was fucking around on our mother,” I shot back with too much heat directed at him.
“It isn’t Madison’s fault that she was born into her parents’ mess.”
“Wow, Bastian, where is this forgiving side coming from?” The old nickname slips out again, softening my edge despite myself.
“I’m trying, Thorne. I’m trying. So give me a break, will you?”
Why in the hell am I baiting my brother? None of this is his doing. Nope, that’s all from our soulless father. And fuck, after all I’ve done, I don’t deserve Bastian’s forgiveness either.
“Why not brush her off? Dad owned and controlled half the important men and women in Kentucky, which means we own and control them now. Yet this fourteen-year-old thinks she can control us?”
“She’s not bluffing, Thorne. She’ll give them everything. All the sordid details of her mother’s relationship with Dad.”
“Fuck, let her. Most already know our father had no morals.”
“Those are whispers and rumors. We don’t need facts. Not when the board and shareholders are already shaken by his death. We might be running all the major parts of the business, but the old crowd still saw him as the face of Blackstone Bourbon. Add a confirmed sex scandal to the instability, and we could lose control before we ever really have it."
Silence stretches between us. He’s right, and we both know it.
"Fine," I say finally. "I’ll be there. We’ll hear what she has to say."
"Thank you."
"Don’t thank me yet. I’m not promising to be civil about it."
We hang up and I reach for the bottle, then freeze. Why is this here? I had specifically told the porter two fingers of bourbon each evening. No more. No less.
Grabbing the bottle, I stalk to the door to my stateroom and slide open the door with too much force. “Why did you leave this in here?” I demand.
The kid looks no older than twenty. “My b-boss told me to leave it,” he stutters.
I inhale a deep breath. Most of the routes I take by train know my new rule, but it’s been a long time since I’ve traveled from Quebec to Kentucky. “Tell your boss, things changed.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
I start to turn, but the thought of going back inside my sleeping quarters feels like returning to a cage. “Is there somewhere on the train where I could step outside?” I ask.
The kid’s eyes widen. “Sir, the train is moving.”
“Thanks, junior.” I’m a grown-ass man. I will not roll my eyes, no matter how strong the urge. I glance at his name tag. “Bruce, don’t you have a little balcony thing on the caboose or something?”
He shifts from foot to foot. “Not for the passengers.”
I quirk a brow and dip my chin. “Am I one of your regular passengers?”
He swallows and his enormous Adam’s apple bombs, “Well…”
“Just take me to it.”
“Okay,” he mutters.
