Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Ah. The crux of my existential problem. The whole reason I was in this humid hellhole in the first place. Ideally, I’d have simply tarnished the Townsend girl and sent Madison my Egyptian sheets as a souvenir. As it happened, my parents had delivered an ultimatum earlier this week—find a bride and settle down, or the CEO position would go directly to Bruce Edwards.
Bruce was the byproduct of top-tier Massachusetts inbreeding. Nine years at Milton Academy, four at Phillips Andover, and two Harvard degrees. He and Senior shared the same dorm room in Winthrop House, eighteen years apart. Both initiated into The Porcellian Club, where good ole Senior served as his alumni mentor.
Though not a drop of Costa blood ran through Bruce’s useless veins, an affront to centuries of Costa nepotistic tradition, Romeo Costa Sr. considered himself too honorable to forget his Harvard juniors. So, Bruce was, to my great displeasure, a fixture in our lives. He possessed the infuriating habit of referring to me as Junior at every public opportunity. Eight years ago, he’d even taken to addressing my father as Romeo instead of Mr. Costa for the sheer justification of assigning me the nickname.
He was also, apparently, in the same room as my parents. His deep, nerve-grating voice soothed Senior. “Romeo, Mon.” Mon, not Monica, as if they were golf buddies. “Children mature slower these days. Perhaps Junior isn’t ready. Not for marriage and not for the job.”
This. This was why I preferred numbers and spreadsheets to humans. I knew Senior half-expected—maybe even wished—I’d flake on his dare and stay single. The only thing Bruce had that I didn’t was a wife. A mousy thing called Shelley. There was nothing overtly wrong about Shelley, other than her taste in men. There was nothing overtly right about her, either. She was the white bread of humans. As bland as unseasoned chicken breast and just about as alluring.
“I’m not going to hand over one of the most profitable corporations in the United States to a soulless bachelor half the company is too scared to approach.” My father was wrong. It was precisely my soullessness that made me the perfect candidate for the job of delivering heavy-duty weapons into the hands of dubious governments and banana republics. Not that he cared about my marital status. He only cared about one thing—continuing the Costa bloodline.
“Come on, Romeo.” Bruce wedged himself back into the conversation. “This can’t be good for your blood pressure.”
Bruce’s brother ran a goliath pharmaceutical corporation that made Pfizer look like David, so he often pretended to care about Senior’s health. The truth was, we both wanted the man dead. And we both played nice to succeed his position as CEO before he kicked the bucket. Well, I played nice. Bruce had his tongue so far up my father’s rear, I was surprised it didn’t tickle his tonsils.
Senior ignored Bruce, continuing his rant. “Especially with Licht Holdings breathing down our necks.”
Licht Holdings—you guessed it—belonged to Madison Licht’s father. A rival defense firm gaining popularity with the bigwigs in D.C. To be sure, by calling it defense, what I truly meant was weapons. My family made an extraordinary volume of weapons and sold most of them to the U.S. of A. Underwater guns, precision-guided firearms, armed robotic systems, taser shockwaves, hypersonic missiles. If it could kill thousands in one blow, we probably manufactured it. War was a profitable industry. Much more than peace.
Sorry, Tolstoy. Commendable idea, though.
“Actually, I found the one.” I sighed with displeasure when I remembered that my so-called one was probably currently changing her name, forging a fake passport, and running off to a country without extradition laws.
“You did?” Monica gasped with excitement.
“You did?” Senior asked skeptically.
“You did?” Bruce sounded like I’d just shoved a ballistic missile up his rear.
“Indeed.” I called an Uber to take me to my future bride’s residence, since this hellhole didn’t even have a car service. “I cannot wait for you to meet her.”
“What’s she like?” The pearls in Monica’s fingers probably twisted with her eagerness.
“The proud owner of a pulse and a womb, your only two requirements.”
Not that she’ll be using that womb of hers.
Monica barked out a delighted laugh. “Oh, Rom. You really can be crass sometimes.”
An Uber Lux pulled to the curb. Last year’s Range Rover. I needed out of Chapel Falls yesterday. I slid into the cab of the vehicle, ignoring the eye contact the driver tried to impose on me. The only thing that would make today even more inconvenient was small talk with a stranger.
“When are we going to meet the girl?” If it were up to Monica, Dallas would be delivered to her doorsteps via Two-Hour Prime shipping.
“As soon as humanly possible.” I needed to destroy any chances of Bruce becoming a viable alternative to me as CEO. That, unfortunately, meant a few more hours in a confined space with Dallas Townsend.