ChapterThree
Sebastian
The early sun glints off the polished Bentley as we roll to a stop, the shadow stretching across the weathered cobblestone driveway of Blackstone Distillery.
My driver, Tom, parks in front of the office.
The elegant structure of dark red brick, black trim, and large, imposing windows is more of a home to me than any of my actual houses.
I end a call at the same time my car door opens. Tom stands beside it. He’s a short white man, nearly as broad as he is tall, who looks more like a bouncer than a driver, but he moves quickly.
Grabbing my sister’s book I bought yesterday from the seat, I step from the car and stretch my legs, stifling a yawn.
“Today will be long. I’ll call this afternoon with my end time,” I tell him.
Derby season’s obligations always dominate my spring schedule, starting with sponsor meetings and culminating in the Blackstone Bourbon Classic party that is still two months away.
“Okay. Have a good one, Mr. Blackstone.”
“You too,” I reply.
My polished black Oxfords strike the weathered stones of the path with steady, unhurried steps.
At the entrance of the main building, the metal door handle feels smooth against my palm, cool enough to briefly ground me.
I love what I do. There’s an almost meditative precision in detecting the subtle differences between barrels, selecting the ideal blend of vanilla and oak, caramel and spice, that will define our signature bourbons for generations.
I don’t even mind the meetings and power plays in the boardrooms. But with the rifts in our family and everyone watching, waiting for a Blackstone to break, work doesn’t provide me the peace it once did.
So it’s also another morning, another performance.
The muted clacking of computer keyboards and the low hum of conversation fill the air, underscored by the soft, distant ringing of phones. The head receptionist nods when I enter and rises from his seat behind a solid, wide desk. “Good morning, Mr. Blackstone.”
“Morning, Sam,” I reply. “Please call Hanna and have her pull the Tobar account. And make sure the Derby Festival sponsorship materials are ready for my review by this afternoon.” The Kentucky Derby Festival’s Thunder Over Louisville was coming up in five weeks, officially kicking off the two-week countdown to Derby Day. We must have everything in order.
“Right away, sir.” Sam hands me a sheet of paper, the phone already at his ear .
I wave a thanks, heading to a meeting at the far end of the building.
Entering the windowed hallway, my steps slow to a stop, as I squint at the bright sunlight.
To the west, lush green lawns stretch into the distance, scattered with rickhouses.
They sprawl across the lawn like sentinels—stark, unyielding.
My gaze fixes on one particular rickhouse, and memories leak through its wooden walls like aged spirits, sharp and burning.
I’m pulled back to that summer when my father had all three of us Blackstone kids leading tours.
It had been both terrible and marvelous.
We’d had to deliver the same spiel four to five times a day for three months straight.
That part was torture, but in between the tours, we were free to do as we pleased.
And we made the most of it, flirting with visitors and employees, playing pranks on each other, and essentially raising hell.
I shake my head, recalling a specific time toward the end of that summer in that very rickhouse.
All the tours had ended for the day and Lillianna, Thorne, and I had opened a barrel and gotten shitfaced.
Sometime that night, we decided a game of hide-and-seek was the best idea in the world.
Lillianna was supposed to seek us but fell into a boozy sleep.
I found her in a shadowed corner, against a barrel, out cold.
Later, Thorne and I returned to the scene of the crime and took a bottle’s worth of bourbon from that barrel, then convinced a label maker to print a special one for us. We presented it to Lillianna that Christmas: Lush-Lillianna’s Boozy Bourbon.
My heart pinches. Does she still have the bottle? After that summer, things began to erode between the three of us. Competition and greed overtook camaraderie and closeness between Thorne and me. Lillianna fought constantly with our father and was rarely home.
Fast footsteps draw me back from the glass and the memory. Hanna, my PA, rounds the corner at a near run, then skids to a stop. “Oh! Mr. Blackstone, sorry,” she says. “Although I was looking for you.”
Her face is chalky, and she’s clutching her tablet against her chest. “What’s wrong?” I ask .
She glances over her shoulder as if afraid someone might overhear. “It’s your brother. He... he took the files from me. And when I tried to explain that you need them for today’s meeting, he...” she trails off, biting her lip.
“What did he do, Hanna?” I ask, my gut sinking into a pool of slime.
Hanna shifts her weight from foot to foot. “He said that if I ever questioned his authority again, He’ll fire me and make sure no one ever hires me. He said he could ruin my career with one phone call.”
“That asshole.” My insides still. It’s the opposite of calm or peace but the quiet of a circuit about to blow. His threat isn’t merely about her job but another calculated move in our endless chess game of corporate warfare.
“I–I’m sorry, Mr. Blackstone. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I’m only telling you now because he took the Tobar file you need for the meeting.”
“You did the right thing. I’ll deal with Thorne. And don’t worry about your job. You’re not going anywhere.”
She gives me a grateful smile, but the fear in her eyes remains. “Thank you, Mr. Blackstone. I appreciate that.”
I nod. “Right now, I need you to go to the conference room, offer them drinks, and let them know I’ll be a few minutes late.”
“Right away, Mr. Blackstone.” Hanna walks away, and I change directions to Thorne’s office.
My irritation hardens with each step. It’s bad enough that he’s interfering with my work, but threatening my employees is unacceptable.
Outside Thorne’s door, I square my shoulders and straighten my tie, making sure my expression is schooled. I’ll give him nothing, not even my anger.
I enter without knocking and demand, “Why did you take the Tobar paperwork from Hanna?”
My brother takes a leisurely sip of his espresso.
Its strong, bitter aroma is laced with the unmistakable undercurrent of bourbon.
The only sound between us is the clink of his small cup as he places it on the saucer.
His blue eyes, as cold as our father’s, take their sweet time meeting mine.
“I wanted to see how much they’re paying for our old barrels because I’m talking to a coffee conglomerate in the Midwest who’s interested in them.
” His voice drips with the exact condescension that our father uses when dismantling someone’s argument.
I know every nuance of this performance, from the casual sip of espresso to the calculated pause and the way he measures each word, like a chemist mixing a volatile compound.
He motions for me to sit. I ignore the gesture, preferring to loom. “What the hell does a coffee chain want with our barrels?”
“They want to store their beans in them, then charge top-dollar for ‘Blackstone bourbon coffee.’”
I lean on the wall next to Thorne’s prized Picasso, a grotesque carnival of clashing colors and mutilated forms. He acquired it at auction last year, outbidding three museum directors just because he could.
“Give me their number,” I tell him. “I’ll have Hanna call them to get more information and forward everything to the right department.”
“I emailed her all the details just before you stormed into my office,” Thorne replies.
“Next time, keep me updated, so I don’t have to waste my time coming here. And don’t ever threaten one of my employees again.” I glance at my Rolex. “I have to get to a meeting.”
“ I should be in that meeting. I should be the master distiller,” Thorne grinds out, some of his cool detachment slipping.
“Well, you’re not. And we’ve been in our positions for years. When are you going to get over it?” I straighten my tie, a gesture that feels more like armor than adjustment.
And I honestly don’t understand why he wants my job or title. Thorne is good at what he does. He has a flair for acquiring valuable properties and turning even the most mundane business ventures into profitable investments that command attention.
“When I’m running the family business, as I should be as the oldest son. That’s when I’ll get over it. ”
“That’s not today. So besides threatening my employees and handling coffee clients, is there anything else I should know?” I ask, making it clear I’m not impressed with his meddling.
Thorne has always been a gambler at heart.
When he’d turned twenty-one, he’d wagered his entire inheritance advance on a single horse at the derby.
Three years ago, he’d risked millions on a failing distillery outside Loretto that everyone said was beyond saving.
Where I see hazards, he sees possibilities; where I calculate consequences, he rolls the dice.
His willingness to bet big when the odds seem impossible is probably what makes him brilliant as Director of Acquisitions and what makes him terrifying as an enemy.
His eyes light up, and the bitterness that had been etching lines around his mouth moments ago suddenly vanishes. “Actually, yes,” he declares, his voice brimming with the same fervor I get when crafting a new bourbon blend. “I’ve been working on something big.”
I no longer like or even love my brother, but I admire his drive for the deal.
He is fantastic as Director of Acquisitions.
And, I can’t fathom why Thorne is so resentful of our father’s decision to name me master distiller.
Dad is a bastard, but there is no denying he possesses a keen eye for recognizing people’s unique abilities and placing them in positions where they excel within Blackstone Bourbon.
“Then tell me,” I say.
“The Willows are finally putting their hotel up for sale. I want to grab it. The location couldn’t be more ideal.
It’s on the iconic Whiskey Row and situated perfectly between the two major convention centers.
The potential is endless. It could create a unique space for a tasting room or a trendy restaurant.
Hell, I may even keep it as a little boutique hotel.
Its vintage charm and our modern vision would make it a destination in its own right. ”
The idea of acquiring The Willows is a good one. I can envision the potential transformation he paints.
“Sounds promising,” I nod. “Any obstacles? ”
“Just one small thing,” Thorne says with a dismissive wave. “We’re not renewing the lease for that little bookstore next door. We need that space for my vision with The Willows.”
“Novel Idea? The bookstore?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Thorne’s eyes narrow, his attention laser-focused on me. “You know the place?” he asks, his voice deceptively casual.
Shit. I shift, keeping my expression neutral. “You know I like to read. I’ve been there a few times. She and I talk about books.”
He studies my face with the same intensity reserved for acquisition targets, and I hope like hell my mask is in place. Thorne has always possessed an uncanny ability to read people, to spot the smallest flicker of interest or hesitation, and use it to his advantage.
“Just books, huh?” he snatches up his phone, his fingers swiping across the screen.
A moment later, he straightens in his seat, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
He turns the cell towards me. The screen displays a photo of Rosalia beaming next to her one-of-a-kind book counter.
He taps on the screen again, his eyes scanning like he’s reading.
“Well, well, well. It seems Ms. Manchester is not only pretty but also single.” His voice drips with insinuation.
“I bet you like more than her books, little brother.”
“Don’t be crass. Rosalia is a smart business person, and her shop is good for the community.” I hold his gaze, refusing to look away.
Something calculating flickers in his eyes. It’s so far from the person he was that summer in the rickhouse, miles away from the guy who helped me craft Lillianna’s special bottle of bourbon. “Rosalia, huh?”
Fuck. Thorne had always possessed an uncanny talent for locating vulnerabilities, for spotting the tell that would win him the hand. And he sees mine. Rosalia. The slight softening in my voice when I said her name was all it took. One momentary slip, and he was already calculating how to use it.
He continues to study me, tapping his fingers against his desk. Then a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Well, this is interesting,” he says, setting his phone down with deliberate care .
My coffee curdles in my stomach. Despite years of perfecting my poker face, I know Thorne can sense weakness. Our father taught us both how to hunt for it.
Thorne leans forward, his eyes gleaming like a wolf that’s caught a scent. “You know, Sebastian, I think our Whiskey Row property just became much more... personal.”