Chapter 146 The bastard’s luck

Chapter 146 The bastard’s luck
~DAVID'S POV~

"Fold."

I tossed my cards onto the green felt table, watching the dealer rake in my chips for the third time in twenty minutes. Fifty thousand dollars. Gone.

I signaled the waitress for another scotch, my jaw tight.

When did this start again? The gambling? The need to bleed money just to feel something? It reminded me of college. Back then, I would squander the hush money my father sent me just to spite him. 

I would burn through thousands in a night, trying to fill the void where a family was supposed to be.

I looked at the whiskey swirling in my glass.

I was the mistake. The illegitimate son. My mother had taken Thomas Blackwood's payoff the moment the ink was dry on the check, leaving her three-year-old son behind like a piece of luggage she didn't want to pay the fee for. 

My nanny was the only mother I ever knew. She was paid to care, but at least she showed up.

And then... there was Claire.

I closed my eyes, the casino noise fading into a dull roar.

I remembered the first time I met her. Richard had brought her home for dinner. She was nervous, wearing a blue dress that was too simple for the Blackwood dining room but made her look like an angel.

She was the only one who didn't look through me. She didn't treat me like the bastard in the corner. When she smiled at me, it was real. 

When she asked how I was, she actually waited for the answer. She was the only good, pure thing that had ever walked through those doors.

And I wanted her.

I wanted her so badly it made my teeth ache. I stopped accepting scraps that day. I stopped being the quiet brother. I left for Europe to build myself into someone worthy of her, waiting for Richard to inevitably screw it up.

And he did. He broke her.

I thought the heavens were finally giving me a chance. I came back to New York ready to sweep her up, ready to be the hero.

But fate has a sick sense of humor. It gave her to another Blackwood. Another bastard.

"Alexander," I muttered, gripping the glass until my knuckles turned white. "You stole my turn."

My phone buzzed on the felt table, vibrating against a losing chip.

I picked it up, annoyed. It was a text from Richard.

I frowned. Ever since I had roped Richard into my little coup to take down Alistair, he had been clingy. Needy. He called me for approval on every move, like a dog looking for a treat. 

It was pathetic, but necessary. 

I needed Richard to be the face of the rebellion until I could secure the board's trust. Once Alistair was out, I would reveal just how unstable Richard really was. 

I would show them the erratic behavior, the drinking, the violence.

I would take the crown. And then I would take the Queen.

I opened the text.

Richard: 'I'm at Brad Sterling's place. You need to get here. Fast.' I stared at the screen.

Brad Sterling? Monica's father?

Why the hell was Richard there? We were supposed to be laying low, letting the lawyers handle the fallout from the lodge. 

If Richard went after Monica's father...I typed back furiously.

Me: 'What are you doing there? Get out. Now.' No response.

I waited a minute. Two.

Me: 'Richard. Answer me.' Silence.

"Damn it," I cursed, squeezing my phone as I stood up. I left my remaining chips on the table.

I rushed to the parking lot, my heart beating a warning beat against my ribs. I had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. Richard was a loose cannon, and I had handed him a loaded gun. 

If he did something stupid, if he got arrested tonight, my entire plan to use him against Alistair would go up in smoke.

I peeled out of the casino parking lot, my tires screeching. I drove like a madman, weaving through traffic, ignoring the honks and the middle fingers from other drivers.

"Don't do it, Richard," I muttered, gripping the wheel. "Don't you dare ruin this for me."

It took me twenty minutes to reach the Sterling estate in the Hamptons. The house was dark, dominating against the night sky like a mausoleum.

I saw Richard's sedan parked haphazardly on the front lawn, the driver's door wide open.

"Idiot," I hissed.

I slammed my car into park and jumped out. 

The stone crunched loudly under my boots as I ran toward the front entrance. The huge oak door was ajar.

"Richard!" I called out, pushing the door open.

The entrance was silent. The air smelled metallic. Like copper. Like a butcher shop.

"Richard!"

I heard footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Richard walked out of the living room and into the hallway light.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes went wide.

Richard was wearing a white dress shirt, or at least, it used to be white. Now, it was soaked, saturated in deep, crimson red. His hands were coated in it. There was a spray of it across his face, looking like freckles in the dim light.

He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a heavy, bronze statue by the neck.

He looked at me. His eyes were vacant. Empty. The eyes of a man whose soul had left the building.

"Richard," I whispered, the horror cold in my gut. "What the hell did you do?"