Chapter 12
Jasper
Then it’s settled, I’ll have the papers drawn up, and you can sign the contracts right here over dinner tonight.” I closed my leather portfolio and stood to shake the men’s hands.
The two luxuriously dressed CEOs stood in unison and took turns shaking my hand.
Got ’em, I thought with a wave of excitement that left as quickly as it had come on.
Business didn’t drive me anymore, not the way it used to.
I had more money than I knew what to do with, and the deals didn’t strike the same nerves that they once had.
It used to be exciting and give me a burst of primal power when I would dominate a new field or company, but the feeling was fleeting.
It was depressing to realize you didn’t care about anything.
For as far back as I could remember, Blackwood Industries fueled every angry, spiteful desire I had. Not anymore. Deals didn’t give me the same boost of adrenaline they once did.
Blackwood Industries was a paradox—a company that once began with knives, then ropes used by astronauts, before quickly evolving into a weaponry empire that now had its fingers in every conceivable sector of power.
The knives that started it all, the ones designed by my father, were still made today, but now, they were sold not just for personal defense but also as tools of war.
High-performance rope used in space exploration now helped secure elite military units as they descended into the chaos of modern warfare.
When my father up and left the company after spending all of its funding, back when it was only knives, the company had crumbled. No one expected any different and no one cared. My father didn’t care, not even when the crumbling was of the manor and his son.
I remembered speaking to Sowerby the day that everything changed—the day I changed.
I was sixteen, my head still bandaged from getting my head bashed in after I tried, unsuccessfully, to steal Callum Parks’s motorcycle.
I had just returned to the manor with a pocket full of cash.
I can still remember how hard it had been not to take the drugs I was running.
I almost did that day. Had it been just me to watch out for and not Sowerby, I would’ve.
I had made just enough to afford to pay the heating bill for the old gatehouse and a little bit of food.
Back then, the property still had the small, sturdy structure that was built directly over the entrance gate of the property.
The gatekeeper had left with all the others, and it was the only place small enough for us to keep any heat in the winter.
The best thing I ever did after making my first million was demolishing that old gatehouse.
My father had run the company into the ground and took with it everything but the company name—something I changed as soon as I had learned how.
I couldn’t have stayed at Blackwood Manor if I’d have had to look at it every day and remember all of the things I wanted to forget.
I had planned on demoing the conservatory too, but I ended up being unable to destroy something she had loved so much; instead, I let her own actions be the thing that killed and ruined the conservatory as I watched.
At first, I had enjoyed watching as her favorite things wilted and died, how they struggled to survive and couldn’t.
I had thought everything in there was dead and nothing but weeds now, but Eliza Arnold had apparently found out that parts of my mother were not only still alive, they were still thriving.
That day, so long ago, Sowerby had limped in, the heavy drag of his bad leg more noticeable than normal.
He was gardening at a few houses in town for next to nothing.
I couldn’t remember a time when Sowerby wasn’t old as dirt.
I remembered watching his old ass in the conservatory as a toddler, and even back then his face was thick with lines and wear from the sun.
“You’re too old to be out there gardening,” I’d told him as I twirled a Blackwood knife in my hand like the douchey sixteen-year-old that I was.
“Enough with the party tricks. Put the knife down before your hand matches your face. There’s no gardening this time of year.
I’m shoveling driveways. And find a new fucking way to earn money.
You’re too young to be ruining your life doing the shit you’re doing.
You’re going to die long before I do if you keep it up,” he’d answered.
“So what? Nobody cares if I die. It’d make things easier for you anyhow,” I had grumbled.
Sowerby was in my face in a second, his grip on my arm was like a vise. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes.
“I do—I care, and if I have to beat it into what’s left of your head, then I will!
Your father is a coward and a weasel, and just because he threw his life away doesn’t mean I’m going to let you.
That piece of shit—instead of keeping a good thing, he changed his mind and ran.
He did it with the knives when he couldn’t take the world’s criticism about making weapons available in markets that sold to kids, and he did it with you when he left.
” His eyes were full of an anger I hadn’t seen from him before.
“Don’t let that man ruin your life any more than he already has, Jasper.
For god’s sake, don’t you want to show him how fucking high you can fly without him? ”
“That’s why he left? Because he was upset about what his knives were being used for? That’s why they left?” I’d asked. Sowerby never spoke about my parents; neither of us did.
His eyes widened for a second before he grumbled angrily and moved to the fire to remove his worn leather boots, wincing and struggling with each one. I remembered watching him fight against those old boots and realizing how much the old man had done for me.
“Sowerby, when I grow up, you’re never going to touch a shovel or a garden again,” I had said with naive bravado.
“Oh, is that so?” said the old man with a sentimental spark in his eye.
“Yeah, it is. You’re going to live a life of comfort, and your feet and legs will never hurt you again,” I proclaimed, and I meant every word.
I took every drop of spite, anger, and sadness and hurled it into learning everything I could about how to fix what my father had left of Blackwood Bladecraft—soon to be Blackwood Industries—and earned my first million two years later.
The rumors about my parents’ disappearance only fueled me on.
And somewhere along the line, I began to enjoy the way everyone startled and got nervous when I’d enter a room.
It was easy being thought of as a merciless, power-hungry killer, far easier than a worthless, unlovable kid whose own parents didn’t even want him.
I didn’t try to quiet the rumors; I used them to benefit my sales.
The only problem was that along the way, I became as cold and uncaring as they all said I was the day I was born.
My parents deserved what happened to them and so did everybody else, including me.
By the time I turned nineteen, Blackwood Industries had grown into a multinational corporation with sprawling R&D facilities in Europe, the United States, and even the Middle East. A subsidiary, Blackwood Defense Systems, was created to oversee government contracts, while another division, Blackwood Tactical Solutions, catered to private military companies and even wealthy individuals seeking personalized defense systems.
As Blackwood Industries expanded, its secretive nature grew even more pronounced.
The company’s dealings were shrouded in mystery.
Rumors of illegal arms trading, covert operations, and shadowy dealings in war-torn regions became commonplace, along with word of the aggressive designs and technology.
Everything about me, including my company, had become dark and lethal.
By the mid-2010s, Blackwood Industries had become a global titan, with annual revenues in the billions.
Our stock price soared, and the company became a staple in the portfolios of the wealthiest investors in the world.
Blackwood weapons were used by national armies, paramilitary groups, and private contractors in nearly every conflict zone across the globe, from Africa to the Middle East to South America.
And to this day, every weapons deal I did, I thought of my father’s face looking at a paper from wherever they were and seeing his fine Blackwood name painted across the front page in a new weapons controversy.
My life force was no longer blood at this point, only spite. When anyone heard the name Blackwood, it was associated with weapons and killing, and there was something deeply poetic—okay, maybe not poetic, but at least cathartic—about that.
Presently, the men across the desk from me smiled even though they continued to look around the room, a bit jumpy.
It fed my soul even now, their fear. I could get the same reaction without saying a single word that someone else would only get by pulling out a pistol and aiming it between their eyes.
My own custom 1911 Cabot was currently tucked behind my Italian leather belt, the matte clip keeping the Damascus steel a shadow inside my waistband.
I could feel them staring at my scar, wondering which of the various rumors were true.
It was so rare that I did deals from the manor because I strongly disliked anyone being here, even for a little while.
I hated their presence so much it filled my senses, and I could taste it.