Page 87 of Monstrous Urges
“It gets us out from under Roger’s thumb, Alistair,” I say quietly. “If nothing else, remember that.”
This is how I’m selling it to Alistair and Gabriel: that Drazen is hiring me as a consultant for a three-month stint of legal work for his organization. In exchange, he’ll pay me for a year’s worth of billable hours at my highest rate. Up front.
Aka, five hundred million dollars.
Aka, the amount Poulter and Lenz owes Roger Fairchild.
“Well, yeah,” Alistair sighs over the phone. “But I still don’t get why the hell he’d want you.”
My brows shoot up. “Okay, ouch? Fuck you, too.”
Alistair chuckles. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, why hire the name partner of a firm, with a frankly insane hourly? I mean, you’re obviously the best of the best, but there’s gotta be cheaper?—”
“That’s the appeal,” I shrug. “You know these mafia type guys. It’s all image for them. There are equally good champagnes out there. But you buy Dom for the label and the pedigree.”
Alistair chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what we are, T. Pure pedigree, baby.”
We both laugh. This is kind of an ongoing inside joke for Alistair and me, since my parentage and entire background are kind of a mystery, and he’s adopted. In law school, we used to joke about him being the long-lost third son of Charles and Diana. Or me being the secret offspring of a rock legend, a la Liv Tyler.
“For the money he’s putting up, I think Drazen just wants…”
Me.
“…my full availability whenever and wherever he needs it. Hence staying here at his place in Elba.” I clear my throat. “But to touch on it again, I agree about Fumi. We should’ve bumped her up to equity partner last quarter anyway. Let’s do it now, and part of the deal will be her covering my workload and clients. I mean, the ones you can’t handle,” I smirk.
“Bitch,” Alistair chuckles back.
“So, yeah, the shipping guys should be there tomorrow to start packing up my office. Amelia is going to be around to help?—”
“Wait, you’re not even coming back to pack up your own shit?”
“Eh…” I shrug. “Amelia’s there, and Fumi’s going to help out with the document prep. Honestly, I could use some time away, and, I mean, I’m already here.”
“Okay,” he grunts. “I get it. Listen, I gotta jet for a board meeting where I can share the good news about the bailout. Check in anytime, yeah?”
“Will do. Thanks.”
He snickers. “Try not to have too much fun working under the psychotic kingpin.”
My face heats.
Too late.
19
TAYLOR
I used to hate moving. After my great-aunt Florence died, I did it more frequently than I would have liked, switching between cheap off-campus apartments to save money.
I knew I had the trust fund, and I knew how much was in there. But I never wanted to touch it unless strictly necessary. I think I always knew deep down that I wanted to use it to build a dream one day.
So, yeah, when I was a freshman at NYU, I could have bought a sick fucking penthouse near the park or in Soho and lived like a queen. At the very least, I could have stayed in the dorms. But it was cheaper to live off-campus, as long as I didn’t mind somewhat sketchy neighborhoods. As one location gentrified and the rent went up, I’d move to another sketchy area, all in the name of saving that nest egg for when I really needed it.
Hell, I didn’t even tell Gabriel and Alistair about the twenty-two million sitting in the trust until we’d decided for sure that we were going to set out on our own.
But moving meant starting over. And that always reminded me of when my entire life started over: when I had to relearn how to do everything. How to think. How to remember things.
How to grieve for parents I didn’t recall.