Chapter 6 Slade
CHAPTER SIX
SLADE
A string quartet plays near the back of the restaurant, and I have the urge to pluck one of the strings off their instruments and strangle them with it. While the ma?tre d' leads me to our reserved table, I glance out the wall of windows, wrapping the room in a panoramic view of the Chicago River.
I’ve always loved this restaurant, as insufferable as it may be, and the standing lunch date company is tedious.
It sits on top of one of Chicago’s tallest high-rises, the walls a bright white with fresh cuisine and no smoking.
A stark difference from EV’s shadowed underground club and permanent choking fog.
I’m seated at our usual table beside the glass overlooking the water, the ripples from passing boats mirrored in the skyline across the river.
There’s something about it—watching the water cut through a city of steel and concrete.
It’s fluid, alive. Despite the city being built on all the noise, it’s rather pleasant.
Taking a sip of the water already poured at the table, I scan the menu, then push it aside, opting to stick with my usual citrus-herb grilled chicken salad.
Whispers float around me as I lean back in my chair, facing the city.
They aren’t loud enough for me to hear them, but every Thursday while I wait, the other diners discuss the latest rumors as if I’m not even in the room.
My grandfather would say I need to “work the room” or turn any gossip into “echoes of admiration,” but I stopped caring about the DuPont name years ago. Now, it’s a means to an end.
The polished wooden table gleams under the soft natural light filtering in, and I rest both elbows on it, casually turning my wrist to look at the time. Late. Always late. As if my time is worth less than his—probably near it.
With a loud slap, a newspaper drops onto the empty place setting in front of me. “What kind of fresh shit is this?”
My grandfather’s ire makes me flinch and sends a zing of excitement down my spine. I study the headline on the front page.
Congressman DuPont Donates Millions to Illinois Library Association by Piper Reeves.
My gaze flits to him as he pulls out the chair across from me and unbuttons his suit jacket to sit.
“Billions. We have billions. Buy a jet. Hell, spend it with EV being too vanilla with your girls, but the library, Slade?”
I adjust my glasses and lean back, bringing the paper with me, pretending to read the article. Then I shrug.
The twitch in his jaw is almost worth it. He hates that the money wasn’t used for more posturing. It grates against every expectation of the DuPont name. Maybe that’s why I do it—because watching him unravel over library funding feels better than any jet his money could buy.
My grandfather sighs and snaps his fingers at the nearest waitress. She isn’t assigned to this table from the looks of her confused expression, but she smiles and bats her eyelashes when she takes in our expensive suits.
“What can I get you, sir?” She addresses my grandfather, but her eyes slide to me, heavy lidded, and she bites at her lower lip while the curve of her mouth slowly lifts.
“French seventy-five with Dom Pérignon, sweetheart.” He winks and she grins.
I tug at the knot on my tie, fingers adjusting and twisting as I watch a small boat cut straight down the middle of the river. A delicate hand lands on my shoulder, and I jerk away.
The waitress’s muddy eyes widen, and she steps back. “And for you?”
I gesture toward the water, then raise the glass in a toast-like motion before taking a sip.
“Good with water, I take it. I’ll be right back with your drink and to take your order.”
After she sways from the table, my grandfather’s devouring stare trailing after her, he smirks.
“She’d make a good asset. Senator Graves said they brought in a new girl over the weekend, and now half the members are buzzing about tomorrow night.
Fresh blood. It always takes fresh blood to revive any stagnation. I’ve been telling them this.”
I study my grandfather over the rim of my glass.
“Have you heard from Vaughan?” he asks.
I shake my head. But I’m curious why they’re so eager to get Vaughan back on US soil.
“Graves has use for his … services.” He rests an elbow on the table and points to the paper. “We’ve had more trouble out of this Reeves journalist than we’re comfortable with.”
I roll my eyes. Vaughan: the solution to all their problems. I don’t envy him, although I’m fairly certain he enjoys his job.
Piper Reeves isn’t the first reporter to sniff around EV, growing closer to the idea there’s a secret society underground in Chicago, and she won’t be the last. Though her articles are somewhat interesting. Investigative, that is.
The scent of seared steak, truffle oil, and citrus drifts through the air, and my stomach growls.
I haven’t eaten anything since last night, as my morning was packed full of meetings and paperwork at my office.
I don’t have time to be here, and even though my grandfather has had this job and knows the demand, he’d never accept me canceling lunch.
The waitress returns with my grandfather’s drink and takes his order while I point to my usual. Her flirtatious demeanor evaporates when my grandfather snaps at her for not asking how he wants his steak cooked fast enough, and she leaves the table on the verge of tears.
“You’ve been staying at your lake house more often. Is that where you’re taking your bids?”
It shouldn’t surprise me; he’s had me followed since the day he assumed full custody of me as a child, but still a sliver of unease slithers through me at his words. I clench my jaw and grind my back molars to keep my expression unreactive.
There’s no point in denying what he already knows, so I nod.
He sighs and shakes his head. “Wouldn’t kill you to actually answer. Do you talk to them while you have them in bed? Do you moan with your hands on them?”
My lip curls involuntarily, and my grandfather chuckles aloud, happy with his ability to goad me.
We’ve never had a typical grandfather-grandson relationship.
People assume I was groomed for politics the usual way—private education, polished speeches, legacy handshakes—and I was.
But I was also raised by a man who stripped me of any childhood he felt would make me weak.
He’d rip the books from my hands and shove a manila folder full of secrets in their place, telling me I needed to learn how the world really worked.
He believed in control.
There came a point when nothing I said mattered. The Eight twisted the platform I ran on to serve their own deals, and I finally saw through my grandfather’s motivations. He hadn’t made me a leader to make a difference. He’d made a mirror to carry on his name.
Our food finally comes, and my grandfather offers the waitress another backhanded compliment about how he’s glad it arrived today.
He cuts into his medium-rare filet, and I watch as it rolls around in his half-opened mouth, trying to muster the appetite I had several minutes ago.
He drones on about EV and recent acquisitions the club has made, makes demands, skips dessert, and stands the moment he drops his fork onto his empty plate.
“You’ll get this? I need to meet with Graves. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He tugs at his suit and steps away, engaging with a few nearby tables—for show, not genuine care—before finally leaving.
I hate how they fawn over my grandfather.
As if he’s someone to admire. As if he wants what’s best for the people he used to serve.
What would the average hardworking American think if they knew what their politicians really did in the dark hours of the night?
Or if they could understand the magnitude of money laundered and stolen, all for the sake of furthering their own depraved agendas.
Every damn week he walks away and leaves me sitting here, picking at the last scraps of my lunch, pretending this doesn’t sting over and over like hell.
I should be smarter by now, not let the used feeling sink in and bloat my insides.
But somehow, the ghost of who he was to me—the memories from before I knew better—still makes me crave the kind of approval I’ll only get if I give in to his world, his plan.
Like tomorrow night. Another one.
They’re all the same, depressing and damned.
It’s another way for my grandfather to mark me like some hound dog peeing on his territory.
He’s aroused by the power of seeing me bid.
Of knowing I’ve taken a bite of the apple.
He smirks and smiles when other members watch me bid with the DuPont family money and partake in the devolving evening.
The waitress startles me as she reaches over me to remove my plate. “Ready for the check?” She leans closer than necessary, her chest caressing my shoulder as she smiles soft and slow. “Or … do you need something else?”
Her voice drips like honey—it sticks to my skin and makes me want to wash my hands. I know the look in her eyes. It’s practiced, predictable, and works on lonely men with too much money aching for something to chase. But whatever switch she’s trying to flip in me … it stays off. Always has.
She’s pretty. Many women are. But it’s no different from noticing art in a gallery you paid twenty bucks to see.
You may pause, tilt your head to admire, and think to yourself, that’s nice.
But then you move on. There aren’t any pieces that follow you out the door, haunt your thoughts, or pull at something unspoken from your chest. It’s art for art’s sake. Seen, not felt.
I shake my head and give a polite smile that I don’t mean before she finally walks away.
No pull.
No spark.
Always the same.
The quiet awareness that I don’t feel something—can’t feel anything—settles over me as I throw several hundred-dollar bills down on the table. Then, without waiting for the check, I leave.