Chapter 2
Dr. Bartholomew Shaw’s office
“It’s been two weeks since your wife died,” Bartholomew comments while absentmindedly playing with his pen. “How have you been?”
I spread my arms across the back of the sofa and tilt my face to the side, mulling over the question as I keep him in my peripheral.
Numerous accolades, awards, certificates, and degrees in psychology are displayed in shiny silver frames, aligned with perfect precision on the wall to the left.
Ten years ago, they were all stacked in boxes, shoved into the dusty back corner of Barty’s garage.
Boasting of accomplishments while battling accusations of malpractice must have seemed in bad taste.
“You should move your ‘doc of the year’ award back to the center.” I nod toward the largest frame. “It looks unbalanced as is.”
An encouraging smile spreads across his lips, making Barty look even more kindly than usual.
With his overgrown white hair and thick white beard, he’s only missing a fur-edged red hat to be mistaken for a picture-perfect Santa.
Appearances matter. And with his grandfatherly air and soft voice, people are naturally inclined to trust him.
“I’ll think about it,” he says. “But, right now, I’d really like to hear how you’re handling the passing of your wife.”
“You could say I am rather displeased.”
“That’s an interesting reaction. What’s causing this displeasure?”
I glance at my shrink. “I should have killed my darling spouse sooner.”
The pen slips from Barty’s hand and falls to the floor before rolling under his desk.
“Oh.” He stares at me like I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past. “I didn’t think you were behind that. Maybe you should have started with that little detail. Just so I’m clear.”
A corner of my lips lifts. This right here is the reason why I like Barty.
He knows how to keep his shit together when I drop a bomb in his lap.
I kinda have to, though. I mean, what would be the point of therapy if I can’t be honest?
Bartholomew Shaw, however, is an absolute pro.
Unflappable. Flexible. And can keep his mouth shut, beyond the usual doctor-patient bullshit.
A rare gem in his profession. Then, there’s also the little matter of him owing me a life debt.
“So, tell me, Adriano, was there a particular reason for you to terminate your marriage so abruptly, and in such an…unconventional way?”
“Filippa hired a hitman to kill me.”
“I see. Your ‘displeasure’ with your delayed actions makes total sense now.” His bushy eyebrows pinch as he leans over to fish his pen from beneath the desk. “And that was the only reason?” he asks and resumes the twirling of the ballpoint through his fingers.
“Is it not enough?”
“For some people—perhaps. In your case, I’m not sure.”
“I have killed for lesser transgressions than this.”
“I’m aware of that. Still... I have a feeling there must’ve been more to it.”
“After her assassin failed, she resorted to doing it herself. Pointed a gun at my head.”
“Mm-hmm.” He presses the button of his pen, making it click. “And how is that different than her hiring a hitman to do it?”
I shrug. “Offing someone through a proxy is easy. It can be completed without much care or consideration. A check mark on a to-do list. Facing that person, however, while pointing a gun at them and then pulling the trigger, isn’t the same. Not even if it happens in the spur of the moment.”
“Obviously. And that makes her more guilty in your eyes?”
“Not per se. If Filippa wanted me dead because of her hatred, I would have no problem with accepting her actions, taking them for what they were. I would have put her silly lady gun back in her clutch and sent her on her way. But it was over money. And that…that I could not tolerate.”
“Right. Right. It hits too close to your experiences in Switzerland, something that—”
“We’re not discussing that again, Bartholomew.”
“Of course. Examining major events in your life is overrated. But it’s fine if you don’t want to share. We both know you come to see me only because you’re bored.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You are aware that I have a legitimate multibillion-dollar shipping and logistics company to run?”
“Bored and busy are not mutually exclusive. You can be both.”
“I would pay good money to see what your shrink buddies would say about that assessment.”
“And there lies the root of your problem.” He points the tip of his pen at me. “You have everything anyone could ever want. What you don’t have, you acquire. There isn’t a single thing in this world that’s out of reach for you.”
“You make it sound as if that is a bad thing.”
Barty’s leather office chair creaks as he leans back, rocking a bit in his seat.
He always does that when he prepares to deliver one of his great insights.
“The state of happiness often relies on the thrill of the chase, be it in achieving a personal goal or a professional success, Adriano. The more something is deemed unattainable, the harder the person will work to beat the odds. The greater will they then enjoy the fruits of their labor, and feel the joy and fulfillment that accompanies that victory. When everything in their life is too easily obtained, there is no feeling of pleasure that follows.”
“Happiness is just a misery-free moment in an overly sad life, rationalized to make it seem like it is some great achievement. I prefer to live in reality.”
“Interesting take. And if you don’t believe in happiness, what is there? In your world?”
“Only things that are earned and can be measured. Respect. Influence. And power,” I say.
“We do not choose the world we are born into, Bartholomew. In the one I live in, you can either adapt…or perish. The sludge that is left is a bunch of pathetic, sorry deadbeats, trudging aimlessly through the wasteland of sins.”
Doc leans forward, pinning me with his gaze. “If that’s what you truly believe, I never want to venture into your world.”
“A very wise choice.” I nod. “And yet, it was my world that made it possible for you to get back to your way of life. To reclaim your practice.”
His gaze darts away. It’s been years, but it still makes him uncomfortable to be reminded of the truth.
I met Barty while he was on his knees, slumped over the barrel of a rusty old shotgun that he had pressed under his chin.
The fool unwittingly picked one of my go-to dump sites to off himself.
The last thing I needed was to have some idiot blow his brains out mere feet from another dead body that my men just buried.
I was already running late, annoyed that the meeting location with my informant within the Yakuza had been changed.
I didn’t have time to deal with a suicidal idiot, so I decided to knock him out and shove him into the back of my car.
I figured I’d get rid of him somewhere on the way.
Unfortunately for me, Bartholomew came to while I was weaving in and out of traffic on I-95.
Seems he’d become enlightened during his forced nap, and so he started blabbering his gratitude for “saving his life.”
To this day, I still don’t know what possessed me to listen to his sad story.
To give a shit when he told me about the relatives of one of his patients who accused him of conducting unauthorized psychological experiments.
To bother at all with a guy facing malpractice charges.
Or for making the unproven accusations “disappear” the next day.
That last one is the most puzzling point about my initial association with the doc.
“Yes. Something I’d rather forget,” he sighs.
“Have you ever been tempted by anything outside your dismal reality? Ever had a childhood dream? A wish? Hell, a porn-fueled fantasy? Anything that reminded you that you’re still a flesh and blood man, and not just some juggernaut wielding influence and power?
Ever wanted to change that world of yours? ”
I lean my head back, my thoughts drifting to the evening of Brio’s party. “Maybe.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“There is a woman. Young. A little naive. Or so I thought. She walked in on me just minutes after I finished Filippa off. Saw me with my dead wife’s body and the gun.
I was going to kill the girl, and she knew it.
She turned the weapon on me. My own gun, if you can believe it.
But, it was in self-defense, so I cannot hold it against her. ”
“Always so pragmatic. And?”
“She did not pull the trigger. Silly girl. Left me a cookie instead.”
“A cookie?”
“Yes. After I told her to go.”
Silence blankets us for a moment. Even the clicking of his pen has ceased.
“You let her leave?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Unharmed?”
“Yes. I had Brahms put one of his guys on her.”
“Oh, of course.” The maddening clicking resumes. “To ‘take care’ of her, I assume?”
My phone vibrates, so I pull it out of my pocket and glance at the message. “We need to cut this session short.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes.” I remove my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping the constant pressure in my head will ease.
I’ve been dealing with migraines for almost two decades.
At first, I could manage them with meds.
They were mild. Until they weren’t. Pills.
Shots. Acupuncture. Fucking hypnosis. Even cocaine.
I tried everything. Went to every specialist and did every single test. All so some moron could tell me there was nothing wrong with me.
And another asshole could confirm that brilliant diagnosis.
Evidently, there is no apparent reason for my migraines. It’s all simply in my head.
No shit.
“How are the headaches?”
“No change.” I get up and toss an envelope of money onto Barty’s desk. “Thanks for the chat.”
As I head for the door, images of defiant amber eyes swirl through my mind. Hounding me as they have for days. Weeks now.
“Adriano,” Bartholomew calls after me.
I throw a look over my shoulder, expecting one of his dorky remarks he’s so fond of flinging my way at the end of our hour. Instead, I find a pensive expression on his face.
“What did you do with the cookie the girl gave you?”
I grab the doorknob. “Tossed it, of course.”