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He picks up the shovel.

I pick up mine.

And we continue.

40

NATHANIEL

The summer after my first year of college, my father summons me to his study.

I find him seated behind his desk, a glass of scotch untouched beside his hand.

“Nathaniel,” he says.

Not Nate.

Never Nate.

Only Sam and Cain call me that. With Father, it’s always Nathaniel.

I step inside and close the door behind me. “You wanted to see me?”

“I did.”

He gestures to the chair opposite him. I sit. I don’t ask questions.

Father studies me for a moment.

He’s still handsome and powerful. Of the three of us, Cain resembles Father the most, but we all favor him. His dark hair is silvering at the temples and his eyes are so dark they’re nearly black.

Not one of his sons inherited those onyx eyes. But we got the dark hair, the steel jaw, and the gray morals.

His suit is immaculate. His cufflinks bear the Vexley crest.

“You understand why Samson can’t handle the foundation,” he says.

I do.

Of course I do.

Samson is built for force, not finesse. He understands pain because pain makes sense to him. He understands intimidation. He understands fists and broken bone.

He doesn’t understand ledger lines. Donor optics. Shell grants. Offshore movement disguised as humanitarian reach.

Cain probably does. Cain understands everything too soon. But Cain is younger. Too young for the public face of philanthropy.

Which leaves me.

The shield.

The polished son.

The one who can smile at a benefit dinner while blood dries beneath the tablecloth.

“The foundation requires a steady hand,” Father says.

I nod. “Then I’ll give it one.”