“He’ll be expecting only me.”
“Tough,” I say immediately. “He gets both of us this time. I’m his son, too.”
“You’re not the heir.”
I blink at him. “You almost sound upset about that.”
A strange fear creeps down my spine.
Are the changes in my older brother sudden?
Or have they been there the whole time?
These telltale signs that he was reaching his breaking point. The cracks in his armor.
They must’ve been there. Just below the surface.
And I didn’t even notice how close he was to crumbling completely.
“Come on,” Sean says before I can say anything else. “It’s time to go home.”
* * *
It takes us twenty minutes to get back to the Manor, but for me, it feels like a fucking lifetime. Mostly because Sean refuses to talk the entire way there.
I hate when he does this. Shuts down.
It isn’t making me feel any better about his mental state right now.
I’m worried he’s on the verge of doing something very fucking stupid indeed.
As we approach the massive black gates that mark out the O’Sullivan complex, they creak apart, allowing Sean and me to enter.
We’ve got two men on security today. They both nod their heads respectfully from the security booth as we pass through.
I return the gesture, but Sean just keeps on walking with his eyes fixed on the massive structure in front of us.
The house is a feat of architecture, one that Da spent almost a decade perfecting until he was satisfied with the end result.
Of course, no one believes the house is actually complete.
Da’s not the kind of man to ever be satisfied.
But to the untrained eye, the manor sitting in the middle of the one-acre plot of land looks pretty fucking flawless.
Sean and I walk up the private driveway that leads to the main entrance. The granite façade of the house has grown on me in the last couple of years. Sheer, clean, imposing.
As austere as it is, there’s something to be said for making a bold statement.
Almost the moment we enter, Quinn appears from one of the side passageways.
He’s dressed in his usual butler’s suit, pressed to perfection, without so much as a crease. He’s served the family for almost two decades now. Been around since before I was born.
The man might as well be a freaking robot. He never seems to age, either.
His bald head shines, reflecting the glass of the chandelier that hangs over us. His eyes are a light hazel that don’t miss a thing.
Ma jokes about the fact that Da might have his underbosses, but Quinn is his true right-hand man.