Chapter 16: 16.

After my usual morning greetings, I stop at Deborah’s desk. Her lips are pursed, and her eyes gleam with frustration. A typical Monday at Halcyon. She flutters her fingers toward the all-glass enclosed conference room. I follow her movement, biting back a groan to see my baby brother sitting at

the head of the table, spinning in the chair like a child. Fucking wonderful.

“This won’t take long,” I growl. “Push back my eight-fifteen to nine.” “I’m sorry, sir. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“I’ll deal with him.”

Bypassing my office, I stalk over to the conference room and push open the door. It closes silently behind me. I walk over to the seat next to Perry and set my bag on top of the table.

“You know you need to schedule your meetings,” I bite out, hoping to sting him with my icy words. “Some of us are busy bringing in the money for those who work feverishly to spend it.”

His jaw clenches, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Outwardly, he’s a man. Hell, he can probably bench more than me these days, but inside he’s a brat. Perry might be twenty, but he’s still the oops baby who stole too much of Dad’s time when he had an empire to run.

“I can contribute,” Perry argues. “When you start treating me like a part of this family.”

“We’re not doing this here.” I crack my neck and stare at him with disdain. “What is the investment?”

“It shouldn’t matter. It’s my money.” He scowls at me. “It doesn’t have to be this difficult every time, Winston.”

“If it weren’t, you’d have bled your fund dry by the age of sixteen. There’s a reason Dad made me the executor of your trust fund. Because I can keep a leash on you.”

“Fuck off,” he snaps. “Forget it. I’ll get a loan then.”

At this, I laugh, cruel and mocking. “That’ll piss Mother off. Her sweet, golden child taking handouts. You know that’s a shitty idea.”

“It’s not a handout. It’s a loan. Or, better yet, I’ll find investors.”

“No one is going into business with a Constantine. We own them all already.” His eyes narrow. “Not all of them.”

Sitting up in my chair, I thread my fingers together on the table and shoot him a murderous glare. “Who?” “You know who.”

“Indulge me, brother. Tell me who you’d get into bed with for a few hundred grand.” “Lucian Morelli.”

My teeth grind together. It’s one thing to taunt me, but it’s a whole other thing to throw out that fucking family name.

“I’m sorry, but I think you’ve misspoken,” I growl, giving him an opportunity to backtrack. This is the one bridge no Constantine can ever cross, and him even bringing it up is a slap in the face.

“Morelli has money, and if you won’t give me mine, I’ll borrow his until I turn of age.” Perry flashes me a triumphant grin that reminds me of Dad whenever he’d financially end an opponent in a brutal way.

“You take one phone call with Lucian Morelli, and I will destroy you, Perry. Blood or not, you’ll be gone. I’ll ruin you in ways you’ll never recover from. Mother will hate you. Our siblings will hate you. You might as well marry that bastard, because you’ll be dead to the Constantine name.” I slam my fist down on the table, making him flinch. “Have you forgotten his father killed ours?”

He lets out a huff. “Allegedly. There’s no proof. It was an accident. For all we know, it was one of Dad’s other enemies. Not every bad thing that comes our way comes from the . . .” He pauses, thinking twice about uttering their name again. “Them.”

“You’ll get your five hundred grand by lunchtime.”

He relaxes some. “I wasn’t really going to call him. I would never do that to Mother or to you. I know what they are. Really, Winston.” He gives me an earnest look. “I wouldn’t.”

“I should hope not.” I rub at the tension on the back of my neck. “I work tirelessly like Dad did to keep this machine well-oiled and gushing money into our coffers. It’s insulting for you to run to the enemy at the first sign of distress. Loyalty is absolutely important in our world. You have much to learn.”

“Then teach me, Winny.”

I cringe at the name he used to call me when he was a toddler. The same name he took to calling me at fifteen years old just after Dad was killed, when he’d sob and ask why God would take his daddy away.

“Winston,” I correct, unable to meet his sad stare.

“Give me a job. Let me pull in a salary. I won’t have to bleed my trust fund so much.”

I scoff at his words. “You want to work here? You quit college last year. You’re barely qualified for the mail room.”

“Then let me work the mail room,” he grumbles. “I can work my way up.”

“A Constantine doesn’t work the mail room,” I snap. “It’s embarrassing to our family name.” “There’s something I can do. Just let me.”

“What about your business venture?” I demand. “Suddenly not so important?” “Not if I can work here.”

I can’t believe I’m about to agree to this.

“Associate economic intern,” I concede begrudgingly. “You’d have to work with Nate a lot, but I could involve you in some of my projects. It’s a paid internship for a year. I’ll write in the contract you’re not allowed to pursue any business ventures for the duration of the internship.”

He grins, boyish and fucking goofy. “Seriously?”

“I’ll only pay four hundred grand for the year.” I lift a brow, waiting for him to argue. Though he flinches slightly at the smaller amount, he doesn’t argue.

“After the one-year internship, if you do a good job, we’ll offer you a senior economic analyst position that pays three times your internship salary.” I drum my fingers on the table. “Travel to London, Reykjavik, and Moscow will be required and expenses reimbursed. You’ll be given a company car budget of five hundred grand and your own company-approved secretary. Do we have a deal?”

“Hell yeah!” He offers me his hand. “Thanks, Winny.”

I shake his hand, irritated by the fact I’ve given this toddler a job. But it sure beats the alternative of him getting himself into trouble out of boredom, especially with the Morellis. At least by him working here, I can keep an eye on the reprobate.

“Have Deborah call my tailor. Whoever you use, frankly sucks. If you work here, you have to look the part.” I rise from my seat and grab my bag. “Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t,” he vows.

At least he seems to believe his words.