Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
NOAH
One Week Later - London
The call comes while Chase and I are having breakfast at a small coffee shop in London. My phone vibrates on the table. Unknown number, Boston area code.
I answer. "Hello?"
"Mr. Bryson? This is Patricia Whitmore from Whitmore and Associates. I'm calling regarding your mother, Eleanor Bryson."
"What about her?"
"I'm very sorry to inform you that she passed away three days ago from a heart attack. It was sudden."
"Okay, what do you want from me?"
There's a pause and I’m guessing the lawyer clearly expected a different reaction. "Well, there are estate matters to handle. Your mother left a substantial inheritance. We'll need you to come to Boston to sign paperwork, make arrangements for the funeral."
"Fine, I'll handle the paperwork, but the funeral is nothing to do with me. You can deal with that."
"Mr. Bryson, I understand this is difficult, but..."
"It's not difficult, I was clear with what I said. E-mail the paperwork and I will let you know when I can be in Boston."
Another pause, what exactly is she waiting for? For me to collapse in tears? So dumb. I cared as much about the woman who birthed me as she did me, which was nothing.
"Of course. I'll send everything over today."
I end the call and return to my coffee, noticing that Chase is watching me, his expression carefully neutral. "Funeral?"
"My mother died. Gotta go to Boston to sort out the finances."
"I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Err, because your mother died."
“Everyone dies. She was a stranger who happened to give birth to me. To be honest, I’m not sure why she even named me. We barely knew each other.”
Chase sets down his fork on his plate of half eaten eggs on sourdough.
"You feel nothing."
"No."
"Not even curiosity about the funeral? About seeing family?"
"Family? I killed my dad and I have no family, just you. And there is no funeral. I’ve no intention of dealing with that kind of circus."
“Noah, lower your voice, there are people around,” he whisper shouts and I shrug, not caring.
“So? They should mind their business.”
He's quiet for a moment, studying my face. I know what he's looking for, some crack in my composure, some hint of suppressed emotion, but he won't find it.
"What about the inheritance?" he asks.
"Substantial, apparently, not that I need any more money. I'll need to go to Boston to handle it just so they’ll leave me alone. People are fucking annoying, always disturbing you, wanting something."
"Well…it’s what families do when they grieve, it’s a process. But I get it, we'll go to Boston."
"We'll try and leave tomorrow."
Two Days Later - Boston
My mother's penthouse is exactly what I expected. Large, expensive, utterly devoid of warmth, just like me and her. The place was designed to impress rather than be comfortable.
"Have you been here before?" Chase asks.
"No. After she left before I killed the old man, she never mentioned where she was going."
"I’m sorry, Noah. I wish you could have had a loving home and childhood.”
“Why? I don’t have any regrets. It’s better to not have love in your life, it blinds people from reality.”
“That’s depressing, and not true.”
“That’s because you like your rose-tinted glasses. But you will see in time.”
He rolls his eyes at me as I continue to walk through the rooms, with Chase following. We enter the living room where I can imagine my mother may have entertained guests or plotted evil against someone who crossed her, and I look around, unimpressed.
"Noah?" Chase's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"
"It’s such a bland place. She never did have style."
"Okay…”
We continue through the penthouse until we reach her bedroom. Again, very cold and not a lot about this room. I can feel the sadness coming off Chase in waves. He’s too damn emotional and desperate for this to be the moment I’m cured. It irks me.
"Don't psychoanalyze me, Chase, I can feel you doing it. I’m not going to break like you want."
"I'm not psychoanalyzing you or wanting you to break, Noah. I'm just sorry you grew up like this."
"You need to stop apologizing for something that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t affect me, so don’t let it affect you,” I say, and he looks at me with a defeated look.
“Fine, I’ll keep my mouth shut. How long until the realtor gets here?”
“They said midday, so any minute now.”
He nods then wanders around looking at every item on display. It’s cute. But I just wanna get out of here and start to live our lives again.
The lawyer's office is downtown, and exactly what you would expect from a prestigious law firm, expensive dark wood and leather chairs. Patricia Whitmore is in her fifties, professional, and looks like she has had a day from hell. Her sandy blonde hair is coming out of what may have been a tight bun on her head and her glasses are wonky on her nose. She smiles the same fake way as me as she shakes my hand with the appropriate sympathy. It’s all bullshit, she just wants her cut of the inheritance.
These people don’t care about clients, they are no different from tax firms or debt collectors. Cash is their only language.
"Mr. Bryson, thank you for coming. Again, my condolences."
"No need with the fake pleasantries, I just want to get this out of the way. This is my husband, Chase."
She blinks, then nods before briefly shaking Chase’s hand.
"Of course. Please, sit."
Chase and I sit across from her desk and she opens a file folder, pulling out documents.
"Your mother's estate is substantial. The penthouse, of course, which is valued at approximately $2.3 million. Investment portfolios totaling $8.7 million. And then there are the business holdings."
"Business holdings?"
"Yes. Your mother inherited several properties and business interests from your father. She maintained them but never actively managed them. They've been generating passive income for years."
She slides a document across the desk. I scan it. Properties in Boston, New York, Miami. Shell companies. Investment funds. How the fuck did I not know about this when the asshole died?
As I scan the document, something grabs my attention. A line item labeled "Blackrose Holdings LLC — NYC Operations."
"What is this?" I ask, pointing.
Patricia hesitates. "That's a little complicated. Your father established that LLC a couple of years before he died. It's been maintained by a management company, but the details are somewhat opaque."
"Opaque how?"
"The company owns several properties in New York City. Warehouses, a bar, some residential buildings. The income is substantial but the source is…unclear."
She means illegal. I study the document more carefully and the properties are in outer boroughs, the kind of areas where legitimate businesses and criminal enterprises blur together.
"I want a full breakdown," I say. "Every property, every transaction, every connection."
"Mr. Bryson, I should warn you that some of these holdings may be involved in activities that may be unethical."
"I don't care what they're involved in. I want the information."
She nods slowly. "I'll have everything compiled and sent to you within the week."
"Good. What else?"
We spend another hour reviewing paperwork. By the end, I have a clear picture that my mother's death has made me substantially wealthier. The penthouse alone is worth millions, and the investment portfolios are well-managed and diverse.
But it's the NYC holdings that interest me. The opaque operations. The properties in areas known for organized crime.
I knew my father wasn't just a businessman, he was connected, but I’m intrigued to see how well connected.
And now those connections are mine.
That night, Chase and I are in a hotel room overlooking Boston Harbor. I'm reviewing the paperwork Patricia sent, making notes and planning.
Chase is watching me from the bed, his journal open on his lap.
"You're really not upset about your mother," he observes.
"Can you stop with that?"
"Fine, but can you tell me what you’re thinking?"
I consider the question. "I want to know about these businesses.”
"You think it was criminal?"
"I know it was criminal. Legitimate businesses don't need that level of cover."
Chase sets his journal aside and comes to sit beside me. "Does that bother you?"
"What do you think?"
"Fair enough. Any ideas what they could be linked to?"
"He was never around, travelled constantly, and always had high security. So I guess it could be anything."
"What are you going to do?"
I turn to look at him. "I'm going to find out exactly what my father built. And then I'm going to decide whether to claim it or destroy it."
"And if you claim it?"
"Then we'll have resources."
"We'll be criminals."
"We're already criminals, Chase."
He doesn't argue, and I know that me including him in that has hurt, but it’s the truth.
"I need to go to New York," I say. "See these properties. Meet whoever's been managing them."
"When? Does that mean I can see Tyler?"
“Oh fuck, do we have to? That means meeting that idiot he’s with who won’t shut the fuck up talking to me. All of those guys are irritating."
"I can go on my own while you deal with this."
“I’m not letting you go to that place without me.”
Like fuck is he going over to the Kozlov fucking gang land. Bunch of pricks.
"I’ll get him to meet me at wherever we stay.”
“Fine.”
I pull him down into my lap and we sit in silence, looking out at the harbor. The city lights reflect on the water, cold and distant.
My mother is dead. My father's legacy is waiting. And Chase is beside me, willing to descend into whatever darkness I choose.
It should feel like a burden, but I sense this is something that might fill the need inside of me. To feed the monster that dwells.