Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele

21

Edward

"What are you punishing yourself for?"

I drag my attention away from the window of Sinclair’s conference room. The very same place where, not long ago, the six of us had stood, discussing the disbursement of funds for the new non-profit that Sinclair had suggested. The same one that I am hoping we can put to good use in initiatives I consider worthy.

"What do you mean, punishing?" I turn to face Sinclair, who’s sprawled out in his chair. He seems, for all the world, like a man at peace with his world, which, of course, he is.

He’s married and Summer, his wife, only recently discovered she’s pregnant. Between him and Saint and Damian—that’s already three anticipated arrivals in our circle. Given how madly in love they are, I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of them follow suit shortly. They deserve it, all of them. Every single slice of happiness that comes their way. After everything we’ve been through, it’s only fair that the rest of them have the best years of their lives to look forward to.

And you? What about you?

I am on a different path. Like Baron. Even before the incident, the two of us had always been different from the rest of the Seven. And then the incident, while it had brought us together… In some ways, it had also highlighted how disparate we were from the rest.

"I mean," Sinclair leans forward, "you look like shit, Father."

No kidding. I rub my unshaven jaw. It’s been two days since I saw her. Two days since I shaved. Two days since I atoned, or tried to compensate, for my slip up. The Lord hasn’t spoken to me since.

Not that I am worried. I’ve gone for days…months in the past, when He’d retreated to the Light. He’ll return to me… He has to… He always does. He’s done so on the other occasions when I had erred. None of them had been as serious as this, though.

I’d chosen Him though, hadn’t I? I had turned my back on the one good thing that had come across my path. I had torn out my heart and willingly offered it to the Lord. So, what more does He want from me?

I clear my throat, then turn to stare out the window. "Why did you want to talk to me?"

"Baron."

I still, then compose my features into one of nonchalance before I turn to him. "You heard from him?"

"That’s what I was going to ask you." He scowls at me. "You were the one who heard from him last, isn’t that right?"

I nod. "Nothing since that last letter.

"Hmm." Sinclair leans his elbows on the table, then presses his fingers together.

"Doesn’t it strike you as odd that he’d write, out of the blue, to warn us of the Mafia?’

"It’s Baron." I raise my shoulders. "Who knows what prompts him to do what he does?"

"I thought you guys were close."

"Close?" I laugh. "That’s not how I would put it." I drag my fingers through my hair. "More like, at loggerheads."

"Enough to keep sniping at each other all the time. Enough that when you were at your lowest, he tracked you down and hauled your arse out of that drug-den you’d crawled into."

I set my jaw.

Sinclair folds his arms across chest, "You thought you and Baron came out of the incident the worst, so it gave the two of you some kind of permission to form your own pity club within the Seven—"

"Pity club?" I scowl.

"You forget we swore to always have each other’s backs, no matter what. And that included giving the two of you space when needed."

"The lot of you gave us space?" I laugh. "None of you had an inkling of what we went through—"

"Only because you never shared," Sinclair snaps. "Do you realize how frustrating it is that the rest of us have been open about what happened to us? While you and Baron..." His jaw firms, "The two of you clammed up, as if there was some secret that bound the two of you, something that you didn’t dare talk about, in case—"

"In case—?" I tilt my head.

"In case, talking about it would force you to acknowledge what actually happened."

"And is that so bad?"

"It is." He rises to his feet and grips the edge of the table. "If you want to heal, then you need to open up, Father. If not to one of us, then to her."

"Who?"

"Cut the bullshit, Ed. We know."

"Know?"

He nods.

"Know what?"

"That you and that delectable dancer of yours have a thing going on," a new voice answers from the doorway that connects the conference room to Sinclair’s office.

I glance toward the man who fills the doorway, then groan, "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes." Weston walks in… Or rather, is dragged in by a very excited Max, who prances around on a leash. Weston unhooks his leash, and Max dashes toward Sinclair, who bends down to pet him.

"Hey, little bugger," he croons, "you missed me, did you?" Max barks, licks Sinclair’s face, places his paws on his £7000 suit. Sinclair doesn’t flinch. He scratches behind the dog’s ears and Max positively whimpers in ecstasy, before dropping his paws back on the floor. The dog races around the table toward me. I hold my hand in front of his nose, then mirror Sinclair’s gesture by digging my fingers behind Max’s ears. The dog huffs, tongue lolling, before pulling away and racing around back to Sinclair, who once more pets him.

"Good practice for when the little one comes along, eh?" Weston walks over to deposit the leash on Sinclair’s table. "My, how you’ve unbent since the snarling, growling man you used to be, not long ago."

"Speak for yourself." Sinclair straightens, and Max settles at his feet. "I still have my edge."

"Wait until the patter of little feet sounds on your office floor. Then we’ll see," Weston retorts.

"Office floor?" He glances around, "Why would I bring the kid in here?"

"You mean Summer hasn’t told you?"

"What?"

"That she plans to split parenting duties half in half with you."

"As she should." Sinclair scowls. "Still, doesn’t mean I’d bring the kid to office."

"You would if you had a creche in the office." Saint prowls in. "I am all for it, given Victoria is only five months from giving birth and I, for one, wouldn’t want to be parted from the kid for that long—"

"So, you are going to bring the kid to work?" I ask.

"Probably not." Saint smirks.

"Then?" I frown.

"Ideally, I’d work from home. Hell, I could work from anywhere, and this way, I can spend time with my family. Best of both worlds."

"Of course." The three of us turn to Sinclair who stares between us. "What?"

"You going to shift to a home office, as well?"

"I haven’t considered it," he rubs the back of his neck, "but it’s a possibility. I’ll need to discuss it with Summer."

The three of us look at each other, then I chuckle, "It’s heartwarming; it really is." I glance around at their faces. "You guys gladden my soul."

"What?" Saint scowls.

"Truly," I jerk my chin at Weston, "it’s incredible."

"Care to explain yourself, Father?" Saint drawls.

"Whoever said the Lord works in mysterious ways surely knew what they were talking about."

Sinclair arches an eyebrow. "If you think speaking in riddles will pique our attention?" He knocks his knuckles against the table. "Then you’re right. Out with it, Father."

"All of you assholes brought to heel by the love of a good woman." I raise my gaze heavenward, "Thank you, Lord."

There’s silence in the room, then Sinclair chuckles. "Well played, Father. You’d like us to believe that you are the last man standing, but as we all know, that’s not true."

"What’s not true?" Damian ambles in, his hair streaming about his shoulders. In jeans and sweatshirt, he’s the most casually dressed among us. Of course, if Baron were here, he’d probably give Damian a run for his money.

I push the thought from my head, turn to Damian. "Nothing," I say at the same time as Sinclair declares, "That Edward is the last bachelor of the Seven."

"Technically, he isn’t, considering we don’t know if Baron is married or not." Arpad strolls into the conference room, then shuts the door behind him.

Baron again. Why is there no getting away from the mention of his name right now? Why is he on my mind so much?

Saint barks out a laugh. "Baron? Married? Not likely."

"Hello pot, meet kettle?" I tilt my head at him. "You, Saint, would have been the last man I’d have pegged to get married, and yet—"

"It’s you who claims to be still standing strong, when we all know your heart is taken."

"By the One Above," I declare.

"Not that I am refuting that," Sinclair retorts, "but you are a man, after all. So, what if you decided to turn your back on everyday life and chose to become a priest? Underneath that calm demeanor is a man who, perhaps, feels more than any of us. The day you acknowledge it, the day you forgive yourself for what you’ve been through and stop punishing yourself for what you couldn’t change, is the day you realize that you don’t have to hide behind the persona of the calm man of the cloth."

I blink at him. "And here I thought I was the preacher."

"Can’t preach to the converted, Father." Sinclair’s lips twist. "You know everything I am talking about, but the day you acknowledge it is when things will begin to shift for you."

"You think I’m hiding from the world?" I scowl at him.

He meets my gaze with his unblinking one. I glance around the room, take in the expressions on the faces of all my friends. "Wow." I fold my arms across my chest, "Apparently, all of you think I am using my vocation as a crutch."

"Not a crutch…" Weston drums his fingers on his chest. "More like, you were taking your time to process your grief."

"You were the most stubborn of us, Ed. You needed to get your own way when we were boys." Damian widens his stance. "You were also the angriest."

"Angry? Me?" I laugh, "Are you sure you’re talking about me."

"Remember the time we came across the boys bullying one of the smaller kids in school? Who’s the one who jumped to his rescue?" Arpad asks.

"We all did," I mumble.

"Yes," Arpad nods, "but who started it?"

I stare at him.

"You did," Weston chimes in. "You always took the side of the underdog."

"You had this sense of fair play inside you, which came to the fore when you saw any kind of injustice being done," Saint interjects.

"You were idealistic, the only one of us who wanted to make the world a better place. Yes, you were the angriest amongst all of us, but your triggers were more nuanced." Sinclair places the tips of his fingers together, "You saved your anger for when it would have the best impact."

"Or the worst outcome. As I recall, we were outnumbered that day."

"Ten to seven." Sinclair grins. "Still, we managed to hold our own."

"The fuckers didn’t get off easy."

"No," I chuckle, "we managed to whip their asses, all right."

"Though I couldn’t complain when the teachers finally separated us." Weston winces.

"And marched us all to the principal’s office." Damian smirks.

"Suspended for a week." Saint picks up the narrative.

"And came back to a hero’s welcome from the girls." Sinclair’s grin widens.

"Couldn’t have asked for a better conclusion to that episode," I agree.

"And what about the latest episode, Father?" Sinclair holds my gaze, "What kind of conclusion are you hoping for it?"

"It’s concluded," I assert.

"What do you mean?" Sinclair frowns.

"It means," I fold my arms across my chest, "there is nothing to it. I am a priest, or have you forgotten that?"

"Have you ever let us forget it?" Sinclair asks wryly.

"You going passive-aggressive on me, Sinner?" I narrow my gaze on him. "You have something to say, why don’t you come out and say it?"

"All I’m saying is, you have used the priesthood to hide from what’s important."

"Or maybe I used it to face my fears."

"Did you?" He leans forward with his palms flat on the table. "Is that what you have been doing the last few years?"

I blow out a breath. "Yes. I have been using the discipline that comes with the life of a priest to manage my anger. To channel my frustrations, my hate, my resentment at what happened into something to benefit the greater good of the world."

"Wow," Saint blinks, "you truly do believe you can make a difference to the world?"

"Something like that," I mutter. "Look, it’s no big deal. Apparently, the only way I could get past the incident was by dedicating myself to a bigger cause."

"Not that I doubt your cause for one second," Sinclair narrows his gaze on me, "but have you ever thought that maybe looking outside and helping the world was easier than searching inside for the answers?"

I stare at him. "And here I thought you were a shallow, obnoxious, a-hole of the first order with a superiority complex to end all superiority complexes."

Color smears Sinner’s cheeks. "That too," he grumbles. "Don’t deflect, Father. We are talking about you, not me."

"Yeah, don’t turn the attention away from yourself," Damian chimes in.

"We ain’t lettin’ you go without answering this time," Weston drawls.

I rub the back of my neck, shuffle my feet. "Can’t believe I allowed myself to be caught in this situation."

"Nothing you haven’t done for the lot of us before." Saint smirks.

"Bet you enjoyed the counsel you gave all of us when we faced crises of confidence in ourselves."

"None of you faced a crisis of faith though," I say it in a low voice, but of course, all of them catch it.

Sinclair sets his jaw, Saint and Weston stiffen, Damian scrutinizes my features, and Arpad? He draws in a breath. "This one’s a tough one for you, eh, Father?" he asks softly. "I can only imagine what you are going through right now.”

"Can you?" I say bitterly. "When you all met your women, all you had to figure out was how to stop fighting yourselves. How to conquer your ego long enough to come to grips with your feelings for them. You didn’t have to fight against your instincts, the very way of life you had carved for yourself, or how to turn your back on the vows which mean more to you than your life."

"Do they Father?" Sinclair asks quietly. "Do they mean more to you than the very breath you take?"

"Yes." I thrust out my chin. "Yes, they do."

"Well, then," he lowers himself back in his chair, "this should be easy, huh?"