“Can you speak to him about his vehicle?”
I frown at her. “He got a new car?”
“Halcyon is paying for it,” she tosses back, her lip curling into a disgusted sneer. “While I appreciate you giving him a car allowance, I wish you’d have been there to help him pick one out.”
I’m amused that she’s put out over a car. There’s no telling what sort of monstrosity my brother chose. If we’re basing it on his last car—a restored muscle car, much to Mother’s horror—then whatever it is must be even more obnoxious. I’d never tell her, but I quite enjoy seeing the vein in her forehead throb whenever his Ford Mustang Shelby GT350 roars into the drive, the loud V-8 rumbling with enough power to make the windows rattle.
“His Mustang is one of the best sports cars priced under a hundred grand,” I taunt, reciting my brother’s words back to her. “Zero to sixty in four point two seconds.”
“Don’t remind me,” she grumbles. “Even that, I could tolerate, because it wasn’t an eye sore. His new car is hideous. Try, if you will, to have him reconsider the purchase. If it comes from me, I’ll just sound like a meddling mother.”
Mother never wants to disappoint the favorite child. She can be harsh, abrasive, cruel even, but when she’s playing favorites, she goes all out.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I lie. I won’t. He’s a Constantine. The Constantine men in this family are serious about their cars. Even Dad had his particular desires when it came to his vehicles—which is fitting he passed away in his favorite one. I can give Perry a lot of shit about everything from his hairstyle to his clothing to his lack of business sense. What I won’t do is insult his car or tell him his mommy doesn’t like it.
Keaton steps outside, and I take it as my cue to untangle myself from my mother. My baby brother, who looks striking like our mother but is built like a brick shithouse, pins his wolfish smile on me. I tip my head at him and call out.
“Got a minute to talk business, little brother?”
Keaton’s eyes dart to Mother before he nods. “Always a minute for you.”
“Honestly, Winston,” Mother complains, though there’s an edge of humor in her tone. “It’s your birthday. Give it a rest.”
We both know she’d love for me to convince Keaton to follow in my footsteps rather than whatever grandiose ideas he has about professionally playing rugby. I feel a sliver of pity for him as I remember being his age—headed toward my last year in prep school—wishing for more out of life than what was predestined for me. But, with age, you learn family is everything, and how you continue that legacy is all that matters.
“No rest for the wicked. I’ll catch up in a bit,” I say, taking mother’s dainty hand and kissing the top of it. “Excuse me.”
“Enjoy your birthday, love,” Mother calls out behind me. “Save me a dance later.”
I smirk as I approach Keaton. It’s a shame he’s not older. I’m stuck with Perry at the office, but Keaton’s the brainiac. He’s got the whole asshole jock vibe going on, unfortunately like the fucking triplet twats, but unlike those dipshits, Keaton’s mind is sharp and calculating. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll bag the valedictorian accolade at Pembroke his senior year.
“Thirsty?” I arch a brow at him.
“Depends. What are we drinking?”
I clutch his shoulder and squeeze. “Dad’s stash.”
The smugness rolling off him melts away as vulnerability flashes in his gaze. Like the rest of the Constantines, he was greatly impacted by the loss of our father, probably the most of all of us. Where Perry was an emotionally wrecked teenager, Keaton went from a playful, happy preteen to one formed of stone. Impenetrable and hard. That, I can relate to.
We step inside the estate, slipping past bustling waitstaff as they rush around in a frenzy to make the party a success. I avoid the sounds of piano playing nearby, striding down a series of hallways until I find Dad’s study. It’s been locked because of the guests, but I quickly unlock it with my key and grant us access. Keaton closes the door behind him as I make a beeline over to Dad’s liquor cabinet that remains just the way it always has been, thanks to Mother. Each of her children have raided it, needing to feel that closeness to our father, and each time, she replaces the emptied liquor as though it were never touched.
Keaton takes a seat at one of the oversized leather armchairs while I open the mahogany cabinet. My eyes widen at the new addition. A 24-karot gold dipped with platinum bottle of Henri IV Dudognon Heritage Cognac Grande Champagne encrusted in tiny crystals with a navy-blue ribbon tied around the neck of it.