by Moriah Jovan
As an independent.
After having publicly told the RNC to go fuck itself.
He’ll be a force to be reckoned with.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
I started at Mitch’s husky voice and saw the elongated shadows in the sand. “I’m hungry.”
“I’ll grill you a flounder.”
“Allow me to help.”
“Certainly.”
He hopped up and held his hand out to me, drew me to my feet. He flicked the nipple jewelry again. “I really like these,” he said low.
“Matches what I have on my clit. Keeps me in a permanent state of vague arousal. You know, like your cock ring. Which I know you’re wearing right now.”
He laughed and draped his arm around me, guiding me toward our hut.
“Do me a favor,” I said abruptly.
“What?”
“Grow a goatee. I think you’d look dashing.”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
“To answer your question, I was thinking about Greg Sitkaris.”
“Oh?”
“Do you really want to know?”
He said nothing for quite a distance and then said, “No. Plausible deniability.”
“That won’t fly on Judgment Day.”
He smirked. “Probably not.”
We grilled. Ate. Went to bed and made love.
How different it was when we were both relaxed, nothing to worry about, no pressing issues. We talked until dawn, then slept.
We basked in each other’s company, read books, watched movies, swam in the ocean, drove our boat to nowhere, and slow danced on the beach in the moonlight to music we only heard in our heads. We spent the weekends on the neighboring islands finding street festivals where we mingled and danced with the locals, gorged ourselves on native delicacies, bought local crafts, and wore casual clothes to church.
He refused to miss church, and services in another country with a completely different racial and ethnic makeup, a strange accent—but the same rituals—was oddly bonding. I liked learning the culture of this ward, which was so different from the one I knew, but the same. It was at once surreal and comforting.
I never wanted to leave that paradise, but eventually we went home to Pennsylvania—
—where I got the news that Greg Sitkaris was right where I wanted him.
Homeless. Helpless. With no way to make any kind of legitimate living because my people knew where he was at all times, which bridge he lived under, where he went to beg for work, and that he’d finally turned to prostitution.
I wondered how he liked catching instead of pitching.
Mitch was at work when I got the phone call, so I didn’t bother to contain my glee. I laughed so loudly the kitchen echoed it back at me.
“How are the women faring out there with you all?”
“Very well,” Morgan said. “They seem to like it here, and we’re in the process of getting their names changed. They’ll be living in the same ward Giselle and Bryce and I do while they get used to being on their own.”
“Witness protection, Dunham style.”
“That’s right.”
“What about Shane Monroe?”
Mitch didn’t know I had had his father-in-law in my sights, but it didn’t matter. I had no intention of ruining the man’s life.
“We, ah, encouraged him to never, ever try to contact Mitch or his kids again.”
“Outstanding. You did break the news to him, I hope?”
“Of course.”
The fact that the man Shane had trusted and loved as a son had stolen from him to the point of destitution would be its own revenge.
“Did you shred all those documents I sent you?”
“And burned. After Knox tucked every detail into his brain.”
“What?”
“He has a photographic memory.”
“That’s handy.”
“You have no idea. I take it you’re no longer worried about a premature death?”
“Let’s just say Mitch put the fear of God—and your family—into anyone who even thinks about looking at me wrong. And do you really think anybody’s going to take the chance that since he knows, you all don’t?”
He chuckled. “Probably not.”
I paused. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Oh, hell, we didn’t have anything better to do.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you— How do these sorts of very un-Christ-like activities square with your theology?”
He took a deep breath and released it as if he were debating how much to say. “Um... We Dunhams...kind of see ourselves as an instrument of the Lord’s vengeance. My grandfather was a bit of a rabblerouser. Made sure to pass it along.”
“Oh, my God. I married into a pack of megalomaniacs.”
“As if you aren’t.”
I laughed.
“Everybody’s here for a reason, Cassie,” he said with the humility I’d come to expect from him in matters spiritual. “That reason varies from person to person. I truly believe our mission, mine, my family’s, is to be the bullwhip used to clean the moneychangers out of the temple. If it’s not, we’ll account for ourselves on Judgment Day and take whatever punishment we get. But when we get there, we’ll be able to look the Lord in the eye and say we did our best to protect and clear a path for those weaker than us.”
“Oh, blah blah blah,” I said. “At least I don’t dress my sins up in all sorts of philosophical mumbo jumbo to be able to sleep at night. Fucking hypocrites.”
He laughed. “I guess we are pretty Old Testament about it, huh?”
“Just a little.” I drummed my fingers on the granite and said briskly, “Okay. Time to up the ante.”
“Phase two is already in progress. Not sure how long it’ll take Sitkaris to break completely, since he knows who he’s up against, what we’re after, and why—he’s stubborn and clever—but he’s also acquired a drug habit. If we have to, we’ll pull out the big gun to get him on board.”
“Giselle.”
“She can be very persuasive.”
“Excellent. Keep me posted.”
* * * * *
Revelation
July 2012
Mitch sped through the countryside, lavender fields flashing by in a blur of brilliant purple, the sun glinting off the chrome of his Bugatti, leaves and debris exploding into the air behind his high-performance tires. He lived one hundred and thirteen kilometers from the nearest ward building and he adored every narrow twisting kilometer of it. He loved this, having time to himself on the road to race against no one—in the daylight, when he was happy, instead of in the dark, working out frustration and anger.
Going directly home after church, no responsibilities because he was a visitor—and had been everywhere in the world they’d been thus far, being Brother—not Bishop—Hollander.
He was forced to slow once he reached the village, and it was only another couple of kilometers until he turned onto the gravel road that would take him home. He saw it come into view, the off-white stucco and the red barrel tiles on the roof, surrounded by fields of purple, and wondered if there would come a time he’d want to leave.
Mitch parked next to Cassandra’s red Mini Cooper convertible. The shoe, he called it, to her annoyance, but at least he’d been able to talk her into the one with some power. She, however, would not be able to talk him into getting rid of his car, no matter how much she hated it.
He got out and the smell of bread and lavender wafted on the summer breeze, an odd combination, but not unpleasant and really rather comforting.
Clarissa sat at the kitchen table scribbling furiously on a legal pad, her law textbooks in front of her, all contained in an electronic tablet—Dr. Hilliard had given her a project that guaranteed she would not see the sun her entire summer vacation.
Trevor lay outside in a hammock slung between two trees, wrapped up in and making out with one of the local girls, both of them fully clothed. He’d be going ba
ck to New York in the fall for his junior year at NYU.
Cassandra’s sleek black hair was tucked behind her ears as she stood at the kitchen counter, in a sundress and apron, covered in flour, kneading a loaf of bread.
Beautiful.
Mitch went to his wife and swept her into his arms for a lusty kiss.
“Mmmm, I could fuck you right now, Mitch Hollander,” she whispered against his lips, opening her clear golden-brown eyes.
“I’d take you up on that, but—”
The sounds of another car in the driveway, doors opening and closing, and a low conversation carried easily through the open windows.
“But Mama, I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care what you want,” said the mama, amused but unsympathetic. “You’re taking a nap after lunch.”
“But—”
“Duncan,” said the daddy, his hoarse voice giving extra heft to the stern tone.
Mitch and Cassandra chuckled together as he cradled her in his arms, his mouth against her lavender-scented hair.
“Cawissa! Cawissa! Cawissa!” A small boy with a shock of orange hair burst into the house and ran straight for her. She hugged him and kissed him and tickled him until he squealed. “Will you take a nap wiff me?”
“Sure thing, baby boy. Come over here on this side of me and you can help, okay?”
Bryce and Giselle Kenard walked in just after that, dressed as casually as Mitch, perfect for a hot summer Sunday.
“Four years old and he’s already taking girls to bed,” Giselle muttered and eyeballed her husband. “Apple didn’t fall far from that tree.”
Bryce smirked and snatched a date out of the fruit bowl on the table. Giselle sat by Clarissa when the girl gestured to her for help on her assignment.
“How’d you like it?” Mitch asked.
“Ah, church in a foreign language. Reminds me of the first few sacrament meetings I went to on my mission,” Bryce said.
“They speak English in Scotland, right?”
Bryce said something that didn’t sound like any language Mitch had ever heard. “So that was English,” he concluded. “And you didn’t understand a word I said.”
“I love it when you do that, Ares,” Giselle purred. “Now come whisper Gaelic obscenities in my ear.”
Bryce laughed and sat with his wife, and did, in fact, whisper in her ear.
Mitch grinned and looked at Cassandra.
“Happier than usual, I see,” she murmured huskily, her mouth against Mitch’s cheek. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” he murmured in return. “Beautiful day, gorgeous wife, great kids, good friends and good food. Could it get better?”
“Yes. Good wine, which I have chilling in the fridge.”
Mitch rolled his eyes.
“Just because you insist on remaining a teetotaler doesn’t mean Clarissa and I have to be.”
A soft chime rang through the house, pulling Mitch away from Cassandra, surprised. Very few people could get in touch with them that way. Mitch picked up a small remote and aimed it at the massive screen hanging on the kitchen wall opposite the long farm table.
Sebastian’s face came up on the screen. “Bonjour, Elder,” he said heartily.
“Bonjour, Elder,” Mitch said, wondering what had happened that warranted a video call. “Little bit early for you, isn’t it?”
Sebastian’s lip curled at Mitch’s French. “Is that Provençal creeping into your accent?”
“Parisian accents are suspect around here, you know that. Had to get rid of it. Fast. Now speak English.”
“Okay, well. Bonjour, everybody. Where’s Trevor? Getting laid, I hope?”
Mitch was the only one who didn’t think that was funny, but it was too nice a day to get huffy about it.
“So Cassie told me this would be a good time to call, and I see that we’re all here. Good, good.”
Mitch cast a glance at Cassandra who smiled her nose-wrinkling smile.
“Looks like you have a nice place. We may have to crash your little Shangri-La. So my news—”
“Eilis is pregnant. Again.”
“Oh, no. I am now shooting blanks. Four is all I can handle and one more would’ve forced us into permanent celibacy for lack of time and privacy. Justice is taking over as head breeder of the pack. Nope. Not that.”
“Okay, so...?”
“We caught ’em.”
“Who?”
“The Jep Industries embezzlers.”
Mitch thought his heart had stopped. “What? All of them?”
Sebastian grinned wide. “Every last bastard. Made national news. Kenard, you helped us decorate for the party, but then you didn’t show up to partake in the festivities. What’s that about?”
“Wouldn’t you rather be in Provence?”
“Not this week.”
A news segment flashed onto the screen and Mitch watched, stunned.
Yesterday in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, Gregory Sitkaris was arrested on charges of insurance fraud and racketeering. Sitkaris, a former employee of Jep Industries who was laid off when the company was absorbed by Hollander Steelworks nine years ago, revealed to authorities the embezzlement scheme which prompted financier Sebastian Taight to close J.I.’s doors. In exchange for immunity from embezzlement charges, he gave the D.A.’s office a list of those involved in the destruction of J.I. and full details on how the scheme was carried out. All twelve suspects have been arrested and arraigned.
The former CEO of J.I., Senator from Pennsylvania Republican Roger Oth, was not implicated in the scheme. Taight and his team, the so-called “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” held a press conference after the arraignment.
The news feed changed.
Sebastian, in black, looking more cold and ruthless than Mitch had ever seen him, stood in front of a bank of microphones on the steps of the Lehigh County Courthouse, Knox and Morgan to his right and Nigel on his left. Arrayed thusly, they looked no less terrifying than Sebastian.
“God, they are,” whispered Clarissa. “The apocalypse.”
Mitch couldn’t disagree.
“Nine years ago, Senator Roger Oth called me to fix Jep Industries, and what I found was a nest of vipers buried so deeply in the heart of that company that it would have folded within a month, leaving its employees with no savings and no recourse, as well as destroying over a dozen other companies that employed thousands of people. My cousin, Knox Hilliard, came up with the plan to dismantle J.I. so that Hollander Steelworks could quietly absorb it and keep it running and, at the same time, secure the employees’ investment accounts from theft. We did that.
“Roger had been set up by his team to take the fall should it come to light. If he had called me sooner, if he had let me do my work without the need for a complete hostile takeover, all of this could have been avoided, but he fought me every step of the way. Regardless, Knox and my other cousin, Morgan Ashworth, my friend Mitch Hollander, and I have tried for almost a decade now to prove these people guilty.
“It wasn’t until Greg Sitkaris took out a personal vendetta against Mitch that the pieces began to fall into place. Corporate restructurer Cassandra St. James and investment banker Nigel Tracey had new information that we didn’t have and couldn’t get any other way.
“We are not here today to vindicate Senator Oth. We are here to represent the employees of J.I. and, on their behalf, demand the Senator make restitution to them for the time they spent out of work because of his incompetence and his team’s thefts.
“It’s unfortunate that Roger felt the need to pillory me and my family in the press, and drag us to Congress for attempting to protect him from prosecution. Considering he had put no safeguards in place to prevent such wholesale theft and didn’t understand what was happening to his company even after I explained it, much less that I was trying to shield him because I knew he was innocent, I seriously question Roger’s intelligence and his effectiveness in serving his constituents. I can only hope the peop
le of Pennsylvania take this into account at the next election cycle.
“Finally, may Greg Sitkaris burn in hell for what he did to my friend, my brother, Mitch Hollander. Mitch protected the savings and livelihoods of thousands of people, and then endured a devastating personal attack. However. Although I wouldn’t wish on anyone what happened to Mitch, I believe it was absolutely necessary to effect justice today and that without Mitch’s sacrifices, the employees of J.I. would never have been vindicated.”
When asked to respond to Taight’s comments, Senator Oth said only, “I’m glad justice is finally being served.”
Mitch Hollander, founder and CEO of Hollander Steelworks, and his wife, Cassandra St. James, restructuring specialist for Blackwood Securities, could not be located for comment.
The kitchen remained silent, and Mitch realized that he was the only one dumbfounded.
Sebastian’s face appeared on the screen again, as did his two-year-old daughter’s when she went barreling through Sebastian’s office and threw herself on her father. “Oof! Watch it, Celie.”
“Stowy, Daddy!” she demanded, hitting him with a big storybook.
“In a minute.”
“No, now!”
The raven-haired toddler immediately had his full attention, but probably not the kind she wanted. His face stony, he stared down at her. “Celia. Dianne. Taight.” But she giggled, reached up, dug her hands in his hair, and pulled his face down to rub noses until he laughed. “Okay, you got me. Where’s mama?”
“Sweeping widda baby.”
“Then go play with your brothers until I get off the phone, and do not wake her up. Understand?”
“Okay, Daddy!” She ran out of the room screaming, “Mommy!”