Caged (Sins of the Sigma #1)

Prologue

KIEREN

Fifteen Months Prior to Present Day

Summer Between Sophomore and Junior Year of College, Connecticut

No one gives a fuck if this man survives, so why am I sitting here, waiting for this pathetic coward to wake up?

Who am I kidding? I know why.

I want this fucker to explain himself.

What sins have you committed this time, Father? Did you embezzle away my inheritance as I always suspected you would? Did another one of your investment schemes go belly-up?

Hunt Wealth Management is supposed to be my legacy.

My grandfather founded the company and grew it to become one of the most prestigious and trusted asset management firms, sought after by the world’s wealthiest families.

Old money billionaires. Quiet money. Ultra-high-net-worth families who have birthed generations of aristocrats, royals, oil tycoons, railroad and shipping barons who struck it rich during the Industrial Revolution, and of course, the upper echelon of the Sigma brotherhood.

Is Sigma a good ole boys club? Sure. But everyone knows the world runs on the unchecked greed of entitled nepo babies, and if you’re one of the fortunate few, you’re simply playing your part.

My grandfather was not one of the fortunate few.

He clawed and scraped and sacrificed his way to the inner circles of Sigma elites.

He gave them everything, traded his soul for sovereignty, and then turned the hard-earned fruits of his labor over to my weak excuse of a father who squandered my grandfather’s selflessness on country club memberships, flights on private jets and a grotesque mansion in Connecticut with round-the-clock staff serving a total of three people.

Two, really. My mother and me, since my father was hardly home during my childhood, too busy with whatever urgent business he had to conduct on private islands in the Caribbean.

If my father thinks his infidelity has gone unnoticed, he’d be mistaken, but I don’t think he gives a fuck, and truthfully, I don’t think my mother does either.

She’s content to look the other way so long as the credit cards my father provides keep swiping.

Plastic surgeons, filler, and Botox are expensive, after all.

While my adolescence certainly reaped the benefits of my parent’s social climbing gluttony, it seems as of late that the legacy I stand to inherit is fucked.

The continuous need to refill the Hunt family coffers has made my father reckless.

He forgets I’ve worked at Hunt Wealth Management for the past two summers, once I was finally deemed mature enough to be let behind the curtain.

How is it, dear father, that Hunt Wealth Management has some of the highest returns on Wall Street, repeatedly outranking the likes of Blackrock and Goldman Sachs?

Would it be the questionable investments made with strange overseas ventures that always seem to deliver a very specific return, almost as if it were guaranteed?

Miraculous, really. Earning a consistent fee for managing your clients’ money certainly does help to maintain your garish lifestyle, doesn’t it?

Last I checked, HWM had three billion dollars in assets under management, and when you factor in an average annual fee of one percent, it pencils out to quite a comfortable living.

Frankly, I’m surprised the SEC or FINRA hasn’t come knocking, but everyone has a price.

If my grandfather wasn’t rapidly deteriorating from dementia, he’d be disgusted.

I think he knew the type of imbecile my father would become, which is why he stashed a sizable portion of his wealth in a trust fund with me as the sole beneficiary.

The only obstacles standing in my way of accessing said trust fund are that I must attend Dornell University, become a member of Sigma fraternity, and graduate to my father’s satisfaction, whatever the fuck that means.

I’ve never spoken to my father about his definition of satisfactory, but I’m sure the conniving motherfucker will find a way to hold this over my head as leverage to siphon off a portion of my inheritance for himself.

My father and his schemes. I expected in time he would trip over his own two feet, falling victim to his stupidity and avarice, but I hadn’t predicted it would be this soon. A heads-up would have been appreciated, as I’m sure I’ll have to clean up whatever pile of shit he’s so graciously left me.

I pick at my jeans, waiting as I have done for the past two weeks, monitoring the rise and fall of my father’s chest. The nurses claimed he was lucid this morning while they changed his bedding, but I’m not surprised he decided to return to his catatonic state the moment I entered the room.

The fucker probably heard my footsteps approaching from down the hall and decided now was the time to become the world’s worst actor.

I lift my head, zoning out as I focus on the navy and cream-colored French toile wallpaper, hideous in its cliché predictability.

New money masquerading as old money. Of course, the decorator my mom hired would have selected this pattern to fit the persona.

Scenes of lovers dancing, picnicking, tending to lambs and other subservient farm animals spread across the wall remind me of Monroe.

I believe we’re approaching the two-month anniversary of her telling me to go fuck myself, although admittedly, between my own hospital stay and recovery, I’ve lost track.

She’s as much to blame as I am, perhaps more.

She fed the flames of my demons, wanting what only I could give her, until one day, she conveniently decided I was too much. Then she left.

She fucking left me, and if I ever make my way back to her, I will make her pay.

You don’t get to take and take and take, to standby while I become a shell of myself, then abandon me like garbage once you’ve had your fill.

You swallow the bad with the good. That’s real love.

She used me, used my name, my clout. Everything she is, the person she has become, is thanks to me.

The dichotomy of her existence claws at my mind, yet the absence of her is suffocating.

I want to keep her in a cage for the rest of eternity.

I want to bind her to me, tie her down with chains, drain every last drop of essence from her body.

Our link may be temporarily severed, but once I get my mind right, I’ll make my grand return, and never let her leave me again.

Blinking away my reverie, I huff a sigh of frustration at my vegetated sperm donor who continues to feign incapacitation. Part of me wants to rip out the designer pillow positioned under his fragile head and smother him. How easy it would be to end his bullshit reign. Right here. Right now.

A knowing grin spreads across my face.

No, I’ll deal him a gift far worse than death.

I rise from the padded armchair and stride to his bedside, pulling back the navy duvet cover, no doubt intentionally picked to complement the repulsive wallpaper.

His hand is speckled with sun spots and patches of chapped skin from age.

A bulbous, black and gold ring adorned with the Sigma emblem encircles his pinky finger.

My grandfather’s ring, passed down to my father when he was initiated into Sigma.

A ring which now rightfully belongs to me.

If he were a selfless man, a caring father, he would have given me this ring my freshman year when I pledged the fraternity. Of course, he didn’t.

“Not until I earned it, isn’t that what you said, Father?” I ask aloud to the quiet room. “Well, I’d say at this point, I’ve fucking earned it.”

I’ve bled Sigma black and gold for the last two years, willingly destroyed myself in the process. In seven months, I will take over as president of the oldest fraternity in the nation, and not just any Sigma chapter, the Founding Chapter. This ring, and the legacy it bears, are mine.

I work the oversized ring from his finger, his crepey skin bunching around the joints as I jiggle it off. His eyes flare open like a resurrected dead man, just as I fucking expected, the instant I’ve slipped the piece free.

“Father. Welcome back to the land of the living,” I smirk as I slide the cool metal down the length of my own pinky finger, admiring how perfectly it fits.

He furrows his brows, craning his neck to see his hand, his bare hand, and I grin at his malice-ridden face.

“Mine now, don’t you think?” I state in conquest.

His head settles back against the pillow in defeat as he blinks his eyes, realizing he’s been duped into waking up from his supposed coma.

“Kieren,” he says in acknowledgement.

“Father,” I say back.

I saunter back to my chair, crossing my legs like a therapist ready to conduct a session with my most detested patient. “Explain.”

The old man says nothing.

“Father,” I growl in frustration, “explain why Mom found you unresponsive on the floor of your office three weeks ago. What did you do?”

He shifts uncomfortably as I pin him with my glare.

“Speak, Father. This is my fucking company too. What happened?”

I watch his throat strain to swallow.

“The Southeast Asia strategy didn’t perform as expected,” he croaks. His voice is hoarse from weeks of disuse. I could offer him water, but I won’t, he doesn’t deserve it. “And it was a large part of our investment portfolio.”

“How large?” I press.

“Half.”

I jerk my head, certain I misheard. “Half?! And the money is…” I let my question trail off because I want to hear the fucker say it out loud.

“Gone,” he states, confirming my suspicion.

My fingers flex and relax, over and over. Rage boils under my skin.

“Gone?” I sneer, pure wrath flooding my nervous system.

“Gone?!” I scream. “And just how the fuck do you plan to get back one and half billion dollars? It’s impossible! If any of our clients get wind of this and want to pull their money… We’ll have to declare bankruptcy. Our family’s name, my name, will be ruined.”

My thoughts spiral as I scramble to think of solutions. “Stop taking a management fee. Sell the house. Blame the downgrade on empty-nester syndrome now that I’m gone.”

“No,” he garbles. “We aren’t going to do anything rash that will draw attention.”

“Rash? You don’t consider trying to take your own life rash? You were going to take the easy way out and let me deal with the fallout. You couldn’t even kill yourself properly!”

“Fucking pathetic,” I mumble. “What’s your plan now, Father, since plan A clearly failed?”

“An opportunity has presented itself,” he says.

“Oh, is that right?” I laugh. “Let me guess, another one of your Ponzi schemes? We can’t get that amount of money back.

You do understand that, right? We’d have to invest all the remaining funds, and even then, we would need to find investments that have the potential to return over one hundred percent to earn back the money lost and the gains you’ve reported in writing to all of our clients.

Investments like this don’t exist unless there is serious risk involved, or you’re part of the fucking mob. ”

I scoff, realizing his intentions. “I always knew you’d turn out to be criminal, dragging our family name down with you.”

“I’m not talking about the fucking mob,” he sneers, spittle spraying from his pale, cracked lips. “Get me a pen and paper,” he demands.

“Why? You plan to scribble out this ingenious plan of yours like a fucking toddler?”

“Watch. Your. Tone. If I wasn’t bedridden, boy, you’d be black and blue.”

It’s not the first time my old man has threatened me physically, and both of us know how such a threat would end.

Part of me wishes he would finally find the balls and try.

The urge to strangle him grows overwhelming, but if I kill him, our family would have to declare bankruptcy.

We’d never recover. I’d never recover. The stench of scandal would plague me and whatever offspring I decide to have for centuries, and I simply don’t have that kind of time or patience.

Begrudgingly, I appease the bastard, finding a basic ballpoint pen and small notepad on his bedside table. The notepad fittingly has the letters “H – W – M” for Hunt Wealth Management printed in embossed, gold cursive on the top of each note.

I hold the two items in front of his face, and my father has the audacity to pretend that lifting his arms to take them is a strain. He writes a barely legible email address, his handwriting taking up the entire expanse of the paper: X@.

“What is this?” I ridicule.

“The email address for X.”

“X?” I ask with mocking indignation. “As in, the letter of the alphabet?” I wonder just how many braincells my father forfeited in his poor attempt to take his own worthless life.

“I’m surprised you don’t know, but then again, you’ve always been a disrespectful brat. Your mother and I have been too soft on you.”

“Well, that’s absolute bullshit, Father, but cut to the chase.”

“X is one of the most powerful Sigma alumnus.”

“Okay, and who is he?” I ask.

“No one knows. He could be the president of the United States or our next door neighbor. He protects his anonymity at all costs. Every Sigma worth their salt knows of him.”

I flinch at the intended dig, unable to ignore the weight of the notepad in my hand.

“And why is it that I need to email him?” I push, struggling to douse my temper.

“Because he will take care of our issue.”

“You mean your issue?” I grind out.

My father glares at me through narrowed eyes, before closing them again.

“Fine. I’ll email him,” I relent in frustration, sick of this game. “But why would he help us?”

“Sigma protects their own,” my father answers cryptically, eyes still closed. My fingers curl into a fist, begging to slam into his unguarded, smug face.

“This isn’t just some simple favor,” I remind him. “No sane person would offer to help cover up a scandal of this magnitude.”

“There are many things you’ve yet to understand, Kieren. Ways in which the world works. Underlying motivations.”

Ah, yes. My father’s favorite way to chastise me, to treat me like a fucking clueless child, but he forgets the type of man I have become. Don’t provoke the bear, Father. I just might bite.

“And what, pray tell, motivates our dear friend X?” I hum. “Does he want control of our company? My first born? A kidney?”

“I’ve already been in contact with him. He knows about you, and your unique position. He’s intrigued, but said he needs to be convinced you have what it takes to give him what he wants.”

“Stop speaking in riddles, Father,” I say through clenched teeth. “What the fuck does he want?”

My father cracks one eye open in my direction, holding my stare.

“Blood.”