“And yet I most certainly will.” I pressed a kiss to her neck where her pulse thumped, true and solid. “I almost lost you. Cut a guy some slack.”
“Fair enough.” She settled back against the pillows. “What about in Chicago? What will you do there?”
“Who knows?” I stretched out beside her, careful not to disturb her healing arm. “For the first time in my life, I can just... be who I want to be. I’m not the family fixer. I’m not the CEO-in-waiting. I’m not Niall Black’s disappointment of a son.”
“Then who are you?”
I looked at her, and in that moment, it felt like my grin might actually split my face in two.
“I’m Laney Fisher’s husband,” I told her. “And that’s a damn good start.”
EPILOGUE: A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
OWEN
Boston looked different when I got back.
Same brick buildings and staid apartments. Same worn streets, cobbled or concrete. Same swampy July weather that could turn from sunshine to a rain cloud on a dime, depending on its mood.
Something had shifted, though.
Maybe it was me.
My broken nose throbbed with every pothole as Mac drove us away from Logan Airport. Funny how I was the one getting the big man’s special attention now. Always a “principal,” I’d always been last on the security team’s priorities, partly because I was crazy, partly because I was always armed anyway, and partly because I was the last Black anyone would expect to take things over.
But now Brendan was out, and Ronan too. Both of them abandoned our legacy within the space of a few short months.
Shea was young and had gone back to California for the time being.
Which left me with my busted face and spectacular bruising, here to absorb the old man’s rage and take on the family mantle.
God, I was his worst nightmare.
Seventeen hours in a car with Laney Fisher, followed by another night in Vegas and a long plane ride home, had given me time to think.
About what we’d done to Ronan. About the backhanded ways I’d always dealt with my family. About the jealousy that had been eating me alive for years because of the way Brendan and Ronan seemed to curry favor in ways I never could.
But now, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way my brothers had looked as they walked away from everything. The company, the CEO position, our father’s approval—all for a woman.
Meanwhile, I had returned to Boston alone, my phone full of message from Dad demanding updates from Vegas, my inbox flooded with board members wondering why the hell Ronan had just sent his resignation letter and who was Ares Antoni and why was he suddenly in possession of so many shares?
For the first time, I was also the one expected to have all the answers.
The problem was, I didn’t. And I never had.
Mac pulled up to my father’s Brookline mansion just as the sun was casting diamonds across the pond across the street. As we traveled up the circular driveway, the house loomed with its colonial facade in the twilight. A picture of conservative strength and tradition, despite the fact that its owner had been anything but.
Any respectability of the Black family had been purchased, not earned. We didn’t deserve the history this house suggested. Especially with the war and tension that simmered inside.
“He wants you inside,” Mac said as he cut the engine.
I didn’t move. “You go. I need a minute.”
Mac looked unsure, but he just nodded and got out to wait by the door.
Slowly, I went through some of the mindfulness exercises the therapists at the VA had taught me when I first got back from the war. First, closing my eyes and taking stock of my body, noticing the varying degrees of tension and temperature held in each muscle, each limb. Then I held up one hand and traced each finger with the others, noticing an emotion for each finger.
Anger. Fear. Confusion. Frustration. Envy.