Page 73 of Wicked Brutal

“Hollis will get it.”

“He’s been saying that since December.”

“Because Bellamy keeps changing the terms.”

Hollis. Vane. Bellamy. Zurich. I don’t know what any of it means. I don’t need to.

Victor reaches for his wine. “Bellamy will fall in line.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He will.”

“You said that about Mercer.”

Victor pauses. Only for a second. “Mercer was different.”

“How?”

“He required more encouragement.” Something about the way he says it makes the hair on my arms rise.

Dad glances toward Tobias. My brother has started tearing the crust from his bread. Then Dad looks at me — the warning look, the one that means stay in your lane, entertain the child. So I do. I reach over and steal a piece of Tobias’s crust.

He immediately slaps my hand. “Hey.”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was saving it.”

“For what?”

“Later.”

“Later tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Next Thursday?”

He tries not to smile, and Dad looks away, satisfied. I’m just talking to my little brother. Not listening. Never listening.

Victor lowers his voice. Still not enough. “Bellamy understands what’s at stake.”

“He understands money,” Dad says.

“Usually the same thing.”

Dad takes another drink. “Not through the foundation.”

“It won’t be.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“After Pennington, I’m not having anything trace back there.”

My pulse jumps. Pennington. I keep my eyes on Tobias, on the little pile of bread crust he’s building like a fortress.