The Monster by L.J. Shen

Gerald Fitzpatrick was a goddamn mess.

Everything about him screamed depression. He lost weight, a lot of it—at least forty pounds—had dark circles around his eyes, and looked like he hadn’t slept or showered in days.

He was a dead man walking, and I savored every moment of watching him like this.

“The hostile takeover for FMK Petroleum is well underway.” Cillian paced Gerald’s office, hands behind his back. “We just need to finalize the small print.”

FMK Petroleum had been buying off the oil fields Royal Pipelines had their eyes on for months. The Fitzpatricks were just the type of people to squash any competition before it became a threat. Monopoly was the Fitzpatrick game of choice, no doubt about that.

I knew that there were congressmen who wanted to see Gerald and his sons go down in flames for setting the pace and rules for the oil industry. Especially the Texas folks. Nobody hated the Fitzpatricks more than the Texans.

The Irish, New England outsiders who took over the industry.

“Samuel, are you ready to go?” Gerald asked.

I nodded curtly.

“Their CEO won’t say no to the deal. I dug up too much dirt on him. By the time I’m done, he’ll be happy to sell you his shares for a fucking Costco membership.”

“That’s my boy.” Gerald smiled weakly.

Fuck you, old man.

The stab of rage I felt each time he called me “my boy” was enough to make me snap.

“In terms of the paperwork, we’ve done our due diligence,” Devon, who sat next to Hunter, added. “All that’s left is to hope the CEO has pull with the shareholders.”

We talked shop a few more minutes before everyone said their goodbyes, shook hands, and drifted out of the room. All of them except Gerald and me.

I waited until the front door to Gerald’s study was closed and the coast was clear—as clear as it could be. Nix had eavesdropped on me once in this house, and I didn’t trust her not to do it again. Hell, I didn’t trust her with a fucking Espresso machine. She was both an ally and an adversary, depending on the day. I suspected she wasn’t even home. I hadn’t seen her Prius when I parked in front of the house. It was likely she had a shift of whatever the fuck she did for a living—note to self: find out and torment her with it.

The memory of my fingers deep inside of her haunted me. It had been a few days, and I couldn’t even bury myself in another warm hole because every time I went to Badlands to look for one, all the other women in the vicinity came up short in comparison.

At least none of them had stirred anything below the belt.

“Oh, Sam …” Gerald rubbed his face tiredly, flipping through his books.

“That’s the point where I’m supposed to ask how you’re doing, right, Gerry?” I sat across from him, lighting a cigarette.

“It is.” His chin quivered. “And the answer is terrible. I am beside myself. I moved out of my marital bedroom.”

“Ah, the old doghouse,” I said dryly, unable to scrap an ounce of pity for the man.

“The doghouse is better than sharing a bed with a bitch. I don’t want to be anywhere near her. She goddamn nearly killed me, Sam. And the worst part is she is still denying it. Trying to poison me. Damn woman.”

The fact that everyone suspected Jane Fitzpatrick was the person who poisoned Gerald was a new development to me but one I welcomed nonetheless. I wanted to toy with the man, to mess with his psyche.

“Have you made the list yet?” I probed. “The faster we get to the bottom of this, the quicker we can move on from this.”

I was referring to the list of mistresses he’d kept over the years. I’d insisted on him confessing to every single one. For research purposes, of course. “Jealousy and desperation for money are key aspects in trying to mess with someone,” I explained.

“I did.” Gerald puffed his cheeks. “Three nights it took me. Doing this made me realize something, you know, son? It made me see that I’ve been spending most of my time with women but none of it with the woman I was married to. Such a sad state of affairs. Ironically, I won’t be giving Jane more attention now, after what she put me through.”

“Hand me the list.” I ignored his little speech. I wasn’t in the mood for his fucking TED talk. If he needed to sit down and write the names of all the women he’d slept with while married to figure out his marriage was a sham, he had the IQ of the room temperature.

Reluctantly, Gerald opened the drawer in his desk, throwing me cautious looks. He clutched the papers—all fucking three of them—to his chest like a maiden protecting her virtue.

“There’ll be some names you might recognize on the list. I trust everything in this room is confidential.”

“Sure,” I spat out. I was a professional, yes, but this man fucked my mother. Then killed my brother inside her. Then convinced her to leave me.

I was professional but not a dumbass.

He dragged the list across the desk, and I snatched it, my eyes roaming, looking for the name I was waiting to see.

I recognized some of the women. A news anchor, a congresswoman, the former Secretary of State’s wife, and the daughter of a baseball legend.

But I did not see Catalina Greystone’s name.

I skimmed again. And again. And a-motherfucking-gain.

Still. Nothing.

I looked up from the pages, scanning him silently while my blood hummed. Anger was a potent spice. Too much of it dulled your senses. But I couldn’t help but feel irrationally cross. Why didn’t he put her name in there? Ah, but I already knew. He must be privy to the fact she died not too long ago and figured she couldn’t be behind the sex scandal leak and the poisoning since it was a little difficult to haunt a man when you were six feet under.

Truth was, Catalina posed no threat to him now, and I had no reason to call him out on it without outing myself as knowing about him. If I wanted a confession out of him, I needed to up my game.

I folded the pages and stood up, smiling.

“I’ll have a look.”

“Let me know if something pops up.” He rubbed his forehead, looking like a less-alive version of a roadkill. “I just want this nightmare to be over. I put extra cameras around the house to make sure I am protected. I want to believe it is not Jane, but with our history …” He shook his head, heaving a sigh.

Making my way out of his office, I wondered why the fuck I was so invested in making Gerald’s life a living hell. I didn’t care one iota about Cat. Sure, Gerald wronged me on a fundamental level, maybe even killed my half-brother, but did he really do something to throw my life off course in a negative way? If anything, I should thank my lucky stars Cat had left me with the Brennans when she did. Hell knew where I’d be if she stuck around to “parent” me.

For the first time, as I sauntered across the shiny marble floors of Avebury Court Manor on my way out, I wondered if maybe there was another reason why I enjoyed hating Gerald so much. Perhaps the excuse to hate the Fitzpatricks and everything they stood for was just too much temptation. Or maybe I always wanted to fuck Cillian and Hunter over—these two boy-men, who had everything handed to them on a silver platter from the moment they were pushed into this world.

I stopped by the door, shook my head, turned around, and made my way back into the house. I ascended the stairs to Gerald and Jane’s room. Jane was in her bed, sleeping soundly in the middle of the day. And by asleep I mean knocked the fuck out.

I strolled into his walk-in closet, took a safety pin from my pocket, unlocked his jewelry box, and went straight for the jackpot. The thing I knew Gerald valued the most.

The Fitzpatrick cufflinks he’d inherited from his dad. Seventh-generation Fitzpatricks, made of gold and engraved back in Ireland, where the family had nothing to their name other than these cufflinks.

His precious heirlooms. The cufflinks he’d refused to donate to a local museum in Boston, he loved them so much. I pocketed them, smiling.

“I put extra cameras around the house to make sure I am protected.”

Now he was sure to think the traitor was within.

On my way out, I spotted Aisling parking her modest blue Prius by the fountain. Snowflakes gathered over her head like a crown.

I could easily avoid her by getting into my Porsche and driving off, but where would be the fun in that?

She got out of her car wearing scrubs, flipping me the bird in one fluid movement, somehow still managing to look graceful as she stomped her way to her house.

“Nice scrubs. Shame you only put them on so your family buys your hospital story.” I chuckled. She froze for a nanosecond before resuming her walk to the front door.

I might not know every detail of her secret, but I knew enough to be able to make her life very miserable indeed.

Unsurprisingly, I made it a point to not want things that didn’t want me. It was a given, considering my life experience and history. And Aisling may have wanted me, but her family was going to keep us apart at any cost. Not that it was going to help them if I, indeed, wanted Aisling. But as it happened, I rejected things and people who thought they were too good for me.

“Have a nice evening, Miss Fitzpatrick.” I tipped an imaginary hat her way.

“Burn in Hell, Brennan.”

“If there’s a God, that’s definitely His plan for me.” I ducked my head, entering my car.

“Oh, there is a God, and trust me, when He gets His hands on you, I’ll be waiting with popcorn.”

“Uncle Tham! Can I ride you?”

Rooney, Sailor and Hunter’s daughter, not even three, flung the door to Troy and Sparrow’s house open, throwing herself at me like a missile. She wrapped her pudgy arms around my leg then proceeded to crawl her way up to my torso like a mini soldier, until I scooped her, tucking her under one arm and holding her like she was a helmet. I waltzed inside the house where I’d spent my teenage years, kissing Sailor on the cheek then Sparrow.

“I wanna ride you.” Rooney giggled, still tucked under my arm as I exchanged pleasantries with my adoptive mother and sister. “Puh-lease.”

“After dinner, Roon Loon,” I said, messing her mane of tangled red hair. She looked exactly like Sailor, who looked exactly like Sparrow. Three generations of hellion banshees. Troy clapped my shoulder, and Hunter handed me a beer, which I took with my free hand.

“Auntie Emmabelle says all the girls at your club ride you,” Rooney continued from under my bicep, blinking at me in wonder.

“Auntie Emmabelle should have her mouth stitched shut.” I flashed Sailor a menacing look.

“I thought I was the only girl who can ride you.” Rooney wiggled free out of my hold, standing front of me. With one hand free, I reached for the table to grab an appetizer, but halfway through, Sailor tucked baby Xander into my arm so she could try to collect Rooney’s hair into a ponytail. It was impossible to avoid children in the Brennan household these days.

“Samuel, could you please hold either the baby or the beer? It doesn’t look good when you have both in your arms. Put one down and help me serve.” Sparrow wiped her hands with a kitchen towel, padding toward the kitchen to check on the Sunday roast she was working on. A weekly tradition.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, putting Xander in his stroller by the door, following her.

I heard Sailor muttering, “A-hole,” behind my back.

“I heard that.”

“You were meant to!” She tugged at Rooney’s ponytail out of frustration.

I leaned against the kitchen island, watching Sparrow taking out bottles of cabernet from the wine fridge to go with the roast, pouring the sky-high Yorkshire pudding, mashed sweet potatoes, and balsamic mushrooms into fancy serving bowls.

“There’s something different about you,” Sparrow observed, studying me through her sharp green eyes.

“Different how?” I took a pull of my beer.

“Different … pensive.” She shoved the Yorkshire pudding tray into my hands. “Put this on the table.”

I did as she said. I may have been a murderer, an underground mob boss, and a savage with no morals to speak of, but I was also whipped to the bone where my adoptive mother was concerned.

“I’m the same usual shade of fucked-up as I’ve always been,” I drawled, reappearing in the kitchen. She wasn’t wrong, though. I had a lot of shit on my plate with a side of diarrhea and an appetizer of stale manure.

The Russians in Brookline were running amok, desperately trying to unshackle themselves from my claws. Operation Ruin Gerald was in full swing, and then there was his little monster of a daughter, who despite everything ran circles in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about Thanksgiving. The mystery surrounding Aisling.

Sure, I could get all the answers in the world if I just put surveillance on her, as I did on so many other people in the city, but that was admitting defeat and succumbing to the idea that I gave a fuck, and I didn’t give a fuck.

Fuck, I gave a fuck.

Well, half a fuck.

Definitely not enough of a fuck to fuck up my entire working relationship with the Brennans, that was for sure.

Sparrow pushed Dijon-covered Brussels sprouts and a pile of sweet mashed potatoes into my hands. I went back to the dining room to unload the food. When I came back, she cornered me between the fridge and the kitchen island.

“Are you sure it’s not about Cat?”

“Positive. And by the way, buying her a tombstone? Dumb move. Grow a fucking spine, Spar.”

“I have a spine. I also have a son who is so deeply in denial about his feelings, he can’t see straight. Have you ever heard of Selichot?” She tried—and failed—to tuck her crazy ginger curls behind her ear.

“No.” I reached to the loose tendril, helping her.

“Every year, practicing Jews recite penitential poems and prayers leading to the High Holidays. The thirteen attributes of mercy are a central theme throughout these prayers. Instead of going to a Catholic confession, the Jews go to the people they have wronged individually and ask for their forgiveness. It’s soul cleansing, they say. I have a feeling one day you’ll wake up and realize you need to atone—to receive forgiveness—for your sins. I think this day is fast approaching, and having a tombstone to go visit will serve you well.”

“Ask for forgiveness from Cat?” I stroked my chin, pretending to mull this over. “Forgiveness for what? Being the fastest sperm who was unfortunate enough to bump into her egg … or expecting her to perform her motherly duties for the half second she raised me?”

“For hating her,” Sparrow said, her voice steady, her chin high. “A son cannot hate his mother.”

“This one can and does. Actually, it’s not even hate. I’m indifferent, which is so much more humiliating.”

“Neutral men are the Devil’s allies.” She snatched my hand from her face, squeezing, refusing to let me go.

“The Devil and I get along fine.” I smirked, amused by her display of emotions, arching one eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“What are you not indifferent about?” she demanded.

“Nothing. Nothing matters to me.”

“Bull, meet shit,” she hissed. “Something is bothering you.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“And it’s not yours either, right? Big Sam Brennan doesn’t care about things. He is above emotions,” Sparrow poked. I saw what she was trying to do. Make me take action, pursue what I wanted, blah blah fucking blah.

The only thing that bugged me, remotely, was the Nix thing, and I wasn’t going to pursue it.

Knowing what Aisling did for a living wasn’t going to make any difference. The more I knew about her, the more I wanted to get to know her, and there was no point in that because soon enough, I was going to kill her father.

“Mom!” Sailor called from the dining room. “Hurry up, Roon Loon is starving.”

Sparrow brushed past me but not before pinning me with a look.

Dinner was uneventful. Hunter talked shop, Troy talked basketball and football, and Rooney tried to sneak scraps of food under the table for her imaginary, friendly monster. Afterward, Sailor and Troy served dessert while I crawled around on all fours. Rooney rode me, using my hair as reins, her laughter rolling down my back.

Three hours later, I was on my way to the door after completing my familial duties for the week. Sparrow grabbed my arm on my way out—because why the fuck not?—and flashed me an I’m-about-to-give-you-a-mouthful-and-there’s-jack-shit-you-can-do-about-it look.

“Remember our conversation the night of?”

“Night of?” I asked sardonically.

“The night you moved in with us permanently.”

The night Cat finally threw me to the curb.

“What about it?” I tensed, even after all these years.

“I told you one day a woman was going to change your mind about all women.”

I cocked my head, flashing her a pitiful look.

“You were wrong.”

“I’m about to be right. I have a feeling. A mother always has a feeling about her children. I was watching you today and…” she stopped, squeezing my arm tighter “…I don’t know how to explain this, but it is close. I could feel it. But you are fighting this. I can tell. You can’t reject fate, Sam. Whatever it is, go to her.”

Petting her head, I said, “She better fucking hope I don’t go to her because everything I touch, I ruin.”

With that, I gave her a peck on the cheek, leaving with a playful smile on my face.

Nothing could stop me from getting what I wanted, and what I wanted was to destroy Gerald.

Not even a like-minded monster with eyes like jewels.

It was a short distance from Sparrow and Troy’s place to my apartment block.

So short, in fact, after ten minutes of driving, I was starting to wonder why the fuck I wasn’t home yet. I looked around and realized I was heading straight to the clinic where Aisling had operated on my soldiers a little over a week ago.

God-fucking-dammit.

This wasn’t in my plan, but I was already halfway through Boston, heading toward Dorchester, so there was no point turning around now. Besides, it had nothing to do with Aisling. I wasn’t in the habit of not knowing things about my clients and their families. If Aisling was up to something stupid, I had to stop her.

I parked in front of the Victorian building, surveying it.

It was Sunday evening, so it was most likely empty. Then again, it was an underground clinic, so visiting hours may vary. When I was sure the place was deserted, I got out of the car and proceeded to break in. The front door was embarrassingly easy to tamper with, and when I descended the stairs to the actual clinic, there was a second flimsy door I only needed to shake a little to pry open.

I went for the third door—the door leading to the surgical room, where Nix treated Becker and Angus. This one was a breeze, too. Once inside her office, I started throwing drawers open and took note of the medicine they kept there, typing the long names of them on my phone so I could conduct a deeper research once I got home.

I checked every piece of furniture, examined every nook and corner until I hit the jackpot.

The patients’ files.

The first telltale sign something was wrong was the fact there was only one folder. Yellow and razor thin. What kind of clinic only took six to seven patients?

The kind that has very specific requirements to accept people in the first place.

I began flipping through the files, reading the patients’ records, their test results, their consultation recommendations.

Something didn’t add up. The drugs. The number of patients. The setting. I knew a scheme when I saw one, and this was so fucking fishy it gave the Atlantic a run for its money. One thing was for sure—whatever Aisling did, there was a good reason why she wanted to keep it a secret from her family and friends.

It wasn’t kosher.

It wasn’t good, or innocent, or fitting for the angelic Fitzpatrick. The Mother Teresa everyone knew and loved.

I tucked the folder back into the cabinet.

I was right.

She was a monster.

A terrible monster.

A sweet, beautiful Nix.

Now I just had to find out what her sins were.