by Meghan March
I’m pretty sure every female in the crowd is now sighing. Glancing up from the podium, I see Holly standing in the back corner, and she’s lifting a hand to her face and dabbing at the underside of her eye.
I don’t try to hold the smile back. “So, there you go. That’s the explanation I have for you. Now I’ll take your questions.”
The flurry starts, but a booming voice cuts through the din. “You really think that ridiculous explanation is going to matter? Not likely, Creighton. I thought you were smarter than that.”
With that, my uncle Damon turns on his heel and leaves the room.
I spend over an hour answering investor questions before my portion of the presentation is over. Holly is waiting at the back of the auditorium, and I stride to where she stands and pull her into my arms.
“You know how to give one hell of a speech, Crey,” she says, speaking in muffled words into my chest.
“I meant every word of it.”
“Is Homegrown really my wedding present?”
I loosen my grip and step back a fraction so I can look down into her eyes. “Yes. It was always for you.”
Her brow furrows, concern shading her eyes. “Does that mean you expect me to run it?”
“If you want to; you can do whatever you want. The management team I’ve got in place now is starting to turn things around, but if you want to get involved with the business side of things, you’re more than welcome.”
I pause to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “I think that’d be sexy as fuck, if you want to know the truth . . . my wife, the CEO, running her own empire.”
I groan as my dick jerks against my zipper. Not the time or the place, buddy. A small smile spreads over Holly’s face, which doesn’t help matters.
“Crey.”
The sound of Cannon’s voice, however, deflates my hard-on. Holly called it when she referred to him as a cock-blocker. Releasing Holly with one arm, I turn.
“What do you need?”
“What are you going to do about Damon?”
“Besides take a hit out on him?”
Cannon’s eyes widen only slightly. “I know a guy.”
“Jesus. Fuck, Cannon. I’m joking.”
He shrugs. “Desperate times.”
“And that’s called conspiracy, and I don’t care to find out the New York prison system’s policy on conjugal visits.”
At this, Holly snorts. “Can I second that?”
A tall, thin black man approaches us. He’s the associate from the conference room who made the “Oh no, he didn’t” comment when Holly walked in.
“Mr. Karas, Mr. Cramer wanted to run one more idea by you, given your uncle’s latest outburst. Could we have a few minutes of your time in the conference room across the hall?”
I look to Holly, and she says, “Crey, do your thing. I’ll be waiting. I’m feeling an epic song about revenge coming on, à la Carrie Underwood’s ‘Two Black Cadillacs’ or maybe ‘Good-bye, Earl.’”
Leaning down, I brush a kiss across her cheek. “I love you, woman. I’ll be right back.”
“Give ’em hell. And I love you too.”
I follow Cannon and the associate—I really need to get his name—to the conference room across the hall from the auditorium.
My lawyer, Cramer is waiting, and he looks less than amused. I suppose it’s lucky that he works for me and not the other way around.
“Save your breath, Cramer. You didn’t approve before, and you don’t approve now. I also know you’re not going to approve of what I’m going to do next.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Karas?” he asks, the skepticism in his tone thinly veiled.
One of the largest negative aspects of this suit is the element of fear that has slipped away from my persona. This will be remedied. I’m Creighton fucking Karas, and the world will not question my judgment again when this is over.
“My uncle may be brave enough to take me on in front of a crowd, but we’ll see how he feels about taking me on man-to-man.”
The lawyer’s silver eyebrows hit his equally silver hairline. “That’s highly inadvisable.”
“Consider it a family matter and none of your concern.” My words carry the unmistakable weight of authority.
He swallows. “Mr. Karas, we have your best interests in mind here. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, Mr. Cramer, but sometimes the only thing a bully understands is a bigger bully. It’s time the gloves come off. I’m done with his bullshit.”
“You’re not going to listen to a logical, reasoned argument, no matter what I say, are you?”
“There’s no reasoning with my uncle, so no. Save your breath.”
“Fine.” Cramer nods. “We’ll leave you to it. Please call us if we can be of further assistance.”
I turn and head for the door. “Cannon, walk out with me?”
He’s on my heels as we hit the threshold.
“You’re not staying for the rest of Investor Day?” he asks. “You have a closing keynote.”
I give him a sideways glance. “You think I don’t know that? I’ll try to be back in time. If I’m not, extend the dog-and-pony show. You’ve got promo videos and PowerPoints up the ass. Use something.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
I stop, and my eyes cut to Holly. She’s curled up in a chair, scribbling in the journal resting on her knee. She’s so fucking beautiful, and I’d walk through a thousand shitstorms like the one swirling around us just to watch her like this.
Not looking at Cannon, I say, “Improvise. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.” I take a step toward Holly, but pause when he lays a hand on my arm.
“Crey.”
I glance back at him. “What?”
“Damon is fucking crazy. What he’s doing—his issue with you—that’s not based in logic. It never has been. Be careful. I don’t trust him, and I don’t think you should either.”
I inhale, long and slow. “I know. This has been a long time coming.”
“Good luck, man.”
Cannon peels off and heads back in the direction of the auditorium, and I cross the half dozen yards between Holly and me. She’s so involved in her writing that she doesn’t notice me until I crouch in front of her.
“I bet if I were naked, you’d notice me quicker.”
Her head jerks up, and her smile is quick and bright.
“Damn straight, I would. That dick of yours demands attention.”
“Later. Definitely.”
“Count on it. After all, I hear I got a hell of a wedding present, which means you’ve got a hell of a thank-you coming.”
“Maybe I should book the room at the Plaza?”
“Screw the Plaza. Let’s go back to Vegas. I didn’t get nearly enough time to enjoy that villa at Caesar’s.”
I smile, thankful she’s not losing her mind over the Homegrown acquisition. “Deal. We sort this out, and you and I are going to high roll it in Vegas.”
Holly leans forward and threads her fingers through my hair. “I’m going to head back to the penthouse to finish this song and pack. So, hurry up and sort it out.”
“I’ll consider those my marching orders.”
Her lips press against mine, and while I want to seize control, I’m aware of the people moving around us, their eyes on us. I pull away.
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m on my way.”
“You better.”
Another quick kiss and then I step away.
I don’t realize that the next time I see her, everything I think I know about myself will have changed irrevocably.
I go first to my aunt and uncle’s penthouse in the city, but I’m informed by the doorman, who has been a fixture in the building for as long as I can remember, that my uncle’s already been and gone back to Westchester. Thanking him for the information, I slide back into the backseat of the Bentley.
“Looks like we’re headed to the estate, Michael,” I tell my driver.
>
“Very good, sir. I’m assuming we’re in a hurry?”
“Aren’t we always?”
I catch his grin in the rearview mirror. “Of course.”
Midday traffic is thankfully lighter than normal, and I cruise through the e-mails piled up in my in-box before I read through the top stories reporting on my impassioned opening remarks at Investor Day.
CREIGHTON KARAS: EXECUTIVE IN LOVE. THIS TIME IT’S FOR REAL, LADIES.
This morning at Karas International’s annual Investor Day, Creighton Karas publicly announced that his acquisition of Homegrown Records was an impulsive move fueled by his feelings for his new bride. He claims that allegations of self-dealing and breach of fiduciary duty leveled in a shareholder derivative suit filed by the executive’s own uncle are baseless given the company’s portfolio of holdings. Further, Karas claims that a purchase of Homegrown by Karas International would have been detrimental to the health of the company and the best interest of its shareholders, given Homegrown’s precarious financial situation. Homegrown, which has been hemorrhaging money since . . .
I skim the rest of the article and several others like it, but it seems that the court of public opinion is indeed turning in my favor.
Now, if I can get my uncle to take my offer and sell his shares in Karas International, then this problem will be solved and I can move on to taking Holly back to Vegas, and if I have my way, on a real honeymoon. I think she’d enjoy Europe after she gets her next record cut.
The beauty of my solution of having my uncle sell his shares is simple—he can’t maintain his shareholder derivative suit if he’s no longer a shareholder. Clean and elegant. Even my lawyers would be proud.
By the time we pull up to the tall, ornate iron gates of the sprawling Westchester estate that was arguably my childhood home, I have my entire speech planned. The gate slides open immediately, and Michael drives through. A blanket of crisp white snow blankets what I know is a manicured lawn with perfect shrubbery. It has never been graced by a swing set. Tag has never been played here. The ornamental trees have never been climbed.
Instead, Greer actually had tea parties, archery lessons, cotillion training, and etiquette instruction. Nine days out of ten, I was banished to my room when I was home, but sneaked out and stole books from the library on economics, finance, philosophy, and anything else that I thought could help me learn enough to make more money than my uncle.
I studied him. Mimicked his moves in the foreign exchange markets. Cashed in and got out to invest in business with people and assets instead of numbers and paper. I took my company public and made billions. And then he came and bought chunks of my stock, and his ownership of a piece of my company was eating away at the rest of it like a cancer. It’s time for him to be excised.
I won’t stand for it any longer. I built my empire with my own sweat, guts, and determination, and I defend what’s mine. My uncle has forgotten that I am just as ruthless as he is. I learned from his example, after all. His reminder will be fierce and swift.
Michael slows to a stop in the circular drive of the ten-thousand-square-foot Georgian-style mansion.
“I won’t be long,” I say, reaching for the door handle and pushing it open.
“Yes, sir.”
I make my way to the front door, and it swings open wide before I reach it.
“Elisabetta, it’s good to see you again.”
The housekeeper, who has served my aunt and uncle in near silence for as long as I can remember, nods. “This way, Mr. Creighton.”
She leads me to my uncle’s study and shuts the door behind me with a quiet click.
Damon is seated in an oversized antique leather chair that looks like it held a Russian tsar. Knowing Damon, it probably did. The Louis XIV desk is the size of a pool table, and the top is spotless, but for a sleek laptop on a leather blotter and a single Mont Blanc pen.
“Figured you’d show up. It’s always good to be proven right.” His eyes are narrowed on me, and his tone clearly says he’s not pleased with my presence.
“Damon.”
“Creighton.”
“I don’t expect you to offer me a seat. I always enjoy being proven right as well.”
His mouth twists into a mockery of a smile. “I don’t know what you think coming here is going to accomplish, but you might as well say what you’ve got to say and get out. Know in advance that you’re wasting my time.”
I imagine that my own smile is just as sardonic as his. I step closer and lower myself into one of his chairs for the sole purpose of knowing that it pisses him off. I enjoy towering over him, but I enjoy pissing him off more. His scowl gratifies every part of me.
“I came to end this, because quite frankly, Damon, you’re wasting my time, and I’m fucking sick of it. I’ve got better things to do than dicking around with all this petty activist shareholder bullshit, and so do you. We both know it. You’ve hated me since I was a kid; I don’t particularly care why. But we’re both adults, and we’re both businessmen. So how about we talk in terms that we both understand and respect—money. I want your shares. What’s it going to take to get you out of my company and out of my fucking life?”
Damon’s eyes, dark like my own, harden even more, but there’s something else there that I can’t identify. I’m reminded of Cannon’s comment because in this moment, my uncle looks more than his normal shrewd and cutting self.
“You want my shares? You can have them.” He sits forward, pressing his palms on the desk, and stands halfway out of his chair. “All you have to do is change your fucking last name and take it off your goddamn company.”
What the fuck?
His request rings in my head, and my brain spins to find a motive or logic behind his words. He’s fucking crazy.
“What the hell are you talking about, old man?” My words come out low and harsh.
Damon pushes away from the desk and stands tall. He’s six foot one, which means I still top him by two inches. Feeling the need to establish dominance once again, I rise as well.
His face has morphed into the most twisted expression of perverted pleasure I’ve ever beheld as he tilts his head and studies me.
“You don’t deserve that name. You never fucking did. Your whore of a mother got it for you by seducing my little brother. She ruined his fucking life. Killed him.”
I suck in a breath but my lungs are burning, as if all the oxygen in this room couldn’t satisfy them. What is he saying?
“Explain yourself before I fucking beat it out of you.”
The evil light of perverse pleasure burns in his eyes. “You’ve never wondered why Greer actually looks Greek and you don’t? Oh, you’ve got Mediterranean heritage, but it didn’t come from this family.”
Everything inside me goes cold. I become intrinsically aware of every unconscious function of my body. Every tha-thunk of my heart. The whoosh of blood through my ears. Each blink of my eyes. Every shallow, indrawn breath and shaky exhalation. The sensation of my stomach on the floor at my feet.
“What the fuck are you saying?” I roar.
Visions of my father—my swarthy, very Greek father—filter through my brain. My mother was a brunette as well. I always assumed I took after her more than him, but my looks never raised suspicion.
“Don’t you get it, Crey? The only reason you weren’t born a fucking bastard is because your mother seduced my brother into marrying her before you were born. She got knocked up by a married man, and her family threw her out. My brother was a sucker. A good kid. A fucking junior in college. He was going to do great things—join me in the business. But he met her, and he wouldn’t listen. They got married six weeks later without telling anyone. When we found out and tried to talk him into annulling it, he dug in his heels. Joined that damn church and moved out of the city. Five years later, they ended up in Papua fucking New Guinea, and we all know how that ended. She as good as killed him herself. He never would’ve been there if not for her.”
His wor
ds twist in a riot in my head, and I’m trying to make sense of them, but it sounds like complete fiction. It can’t be true.
“You’re telling me that David Karas was not my biological father.”
Damon is stone-faced. “No. He wasn’t.”
My father was not my father. The realization pounds into my brain over and over. I turn and pace toward the door. Several beats later, I gather myself and face him again.
“But he’s Greer’s father, because she was born in Papua New Guinea.”
“Unless your whore mother—”
I bolt across the room and my hand is at his throat, slamming him against the wall. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Get your hands off me,” he forces out through the chokehold.
“Tell me who my father is.”
“Let me go.”
“I said—” I wrap my fingers tighter around his throat. “Tell me who my fucking father is. You have to know.”
Damon’s face is turning purple, but he snarls out, “A capo in La Casa Nostra.”
I release him, and he stumbles back into the wall.
What the fuck? The Mafia?
“You’re lying.”
“No reason to lie.”
I lift my hand to my face as I try to let it sink in. “You have proof?”
He nods. “DNA test. Pulled strings when you were a kid.”
The man either has bigger balls than I could have ever suspected—or he’s stupid. “How did you not end up dead?”
Damon tries to chuckle, but it comes out as a grunt. He rubs his throat. “I know people.”
“Well, you can go fuck yourself. This stays between us. I’m not changing my name. You take that request and shove it up your ass.”
“Then get ready to lose your entire company. I will drag you through court and destroy your reputation by dissecting every move you’ve ever made. I’ll be so far up your ass, you’ll taste me with every breath.”
I have no doubt that he will attempt everything he’s saying. The crazy light in his eyes has settled over the expression on his face, and it’s clear that logic has fled his mind completely.