“Likely not. But nothing in this world is free, I’m afraid. If you’d prefer, we can arrange for a dinner party in lieu of the carnival fuck show, as you so eloquently put it.”
The thought of a dinner party would be my idea of torment. “You know how much I love social engagements.”
“A masquerade, then. We’ll hire a crew to brighten up the atrium a bit.”
“If it’ll get them off my back ...”
“May I speak candidly?” Rand has never meant any disrespect, even on the occasions he has challenged my authority.
“Have at it.”
“They’re afraid your commitment has never been as staunch as your father’s and grandfather’s.”
“Well, they’re not wrong. But what’s the worry? I never had a choice growing up, why would I suddenly have one now? Because the dictatorship has ended? All my father’s death afforded me was the same damn shackles he and every generation since my great grandfather have worn without fail.”
“You know I understand, perhaps more than anyone. But this is your legacy, Lucian. If you won’t stay committed for your father, then do it for the son you were never given the opportunity to raise.”
“I wouldn’t have subjected him to my curse. I would’ve set him free, given him choices.”
“And forgive my being frank, but you know better than I do that the organization would never have allowed such a thing.”
They want me because I know things. Secrets they’d kill to keep buried. I only know such things because my own father made me privy to them. The day he introduced me to their little society was the day he slung the albatross around my neck.
“You would’ve undoubtedly been a better father than your own. But that is no longer your choice. Just as this is no longer your father’s.”
Odd to hear him liken my situation to death. Rand has always seemed to favor the organization above all other things. I’ve not yet determined if that’s of his own will, or what my father pounded into his skull all these years.
“What an absolute tragedy.”
On the way to my office, the unmistakable sound of Chopin fills the dark and dreary hallway, drawing me toward the atrium. Peeking around the doorway, I find my mother in her wheelchair beside the piano, on which the new girl plays with the finesse of a seasoned pianist. Chin lifted in the air, she doesn’t seem to follow any music, and I frown watching her. Not once has she dipped her gaze to the page, or bothered to flip to the next. As if she’s memorized the entire piece, note for note.
“I was told she can’t read music.” Rand’s voice from behind interrupts my staring, and I glance back to find him craning his neck for a peek. “Remarkable ability, wouldn’t you say?”
Turning my attention back to her, I don’t bother to answer, too focused on the dampness of her hair, as if she didn’t bother with it after a shower. The way those long black tresses fall about her slim shoulders and frame the warm glow of her face that’s obviously been touched by sunlight.
Vibrant with youth, she’s beautiful without even trying. Mesmerizing.
Beside her, my mother sits with her head tipped, eyes closed, drinking in every note, the way she often would when I played for her. Unlike my father, who ridiculed my love for piano, she encouraged it, would often have me play while she trimmed her flowers, or sat drinking her tea. The only true connection I ever really had with my mother.
“We shouldn’t keep them waiting, Master.”
“No. We shouldn’t. Let’s get this shit show over with.”
I steal one more glance at the girl, the way she sways when she plays, as if the notes move through her onto the keys like a conduit. She opens her eyes and directs her gaze toward me. For one brief moment, a zap of embarrassment heats my face, and I turn away, like a school boy caught peeking through the windows.
The meeting with who I call The Blacksuits, or Chairmen of the Schadenfreude Collective, is always a dog and pony act. Established generations ago, the purpose of the organization is essentially to glean power, money, entertainment and stature from the misfortune of others, though they would undoubtedly have a far more eloquent and scientific way of describing it.
“Gentlemen.” I stride toward the two older men who’re waiting for me in the chairs in front of my desk. Both decked in black suits, they remind me of old Italian mafia dons, though their role in the great scheme of things is far less important. These are merely just the messengers.
“Lucian, good to see you.” Dominic must be in his seventies now, and practically grew up with my father. I’ve always liked him, but never trusted him. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with us. How’s your mother doing?”
“Just fine.”
He shifts his attention slightly to my left, where Rand stands behind me. “And Rand? How are you?”
“I’m well, Dominic, thank you.”
The other guy, Louis, is mostly just here for moral support, as he rarely ever says much of anything in these meetings. Together, the two are a harmless irritation, but one that represents some of the most powerful individuals in the country, so while the idea of meeting with them is about as exciting as taking inventory of the hair on my balls, it’s worth the effort of being polite.
I shake both their hands, each bearing the same signet ring as mine, and round the desk to my chair. Rand stands off to the side, as usual. As many times as I’ve asked him to take a seat in these meetings, he always politely declines. So I stopped asking.
“What can I do for you?” Cold leather presses into my back as I lean into the chair.
“We’ve had an inquiry into the group. Someone has expressed interest in becoming a member.”
Schadenfreude isn’t the kind of group someone stumbles across on Facebook, or something. For generations, it’s remained hidden in the shadows, below the radar, a secret society whose members are some of the most affluent in the world. An inquiry is a big deal. “Oh? What is the nature of his interest?”
“Well, that’s why we’re here. Happens to be your former father-in-law.”
“Patrick Boyd?” Of all the unholy fucks.
“That’s him. He’s been asking around. And quite frankly, he’s making too much noise doing so.”
“How did he hear--?”
“He apparently heard about us through your father, who introduced him to Thomas, and he’s been showing up at his work place inquiring about Schadenfreude.”
Jesus Christ. Thomas is a highly respected surgeon, an active member of the group with some of the most impressive connections, including a Middle Eastern king who once made a special visit to the hospital where he works.
“We think his motivations might be entirely political.” The disapproving tone of Dominic’s voice is what I’d expect. The group tends to frown on inquiries from those whose intentions aren’t aligned with their philosophies.
“They definitely are. He has no business seeking membership.” I toss a quick glance back to Rand, whose face remains stoic, as if he’s not even listening.
“Maybe. But as you know, we like to keep an open mind to those with strong alliances.”