“You steered him to whom?” I ask.

“Only the worst therapist in the entire system for him. She’s young, has a one-track mind, and not in the fun way, and is about as interesting as Cream of Wheat.”

I chuckle, sipping at my snifter of brandy. The firelight flickers behind my chair, casting my body into dark relief as my man sits across from me in the study, his vengeful smile slightly off kilter and bloody in the burning light.

While I would not normally risk another face-to-face meeting so soon with such an underling, this one is amusing. He has a twisted sense of vengeance that most people wouldn’t associate with him, underestimating him on appearances alone.

“Wouldn’t Goldstone just walk all over her?”

My man grins maniacally, shaking his head. “Perry’s too stupid to realize if he was. She goes from question one to two to three, no variance. Ever. So he could try to skirt around her questions, but she just wraps back around and around until she can check if off. Maddening woman. Met her at a Christmas party once. She’s a good reason to indulge in too much eggnog.”

“You have a stroke of deviousness to you.”

It’s high praise. I rarely meet people who are worthy of it.

“Thank you, sir. I learned from some of the best.”

I hum, wondering if the man is giving me a backhanded compliment. I doubt it. He hasn’t been under my tutelage for long. And he’s experienced enough to know that mocking me is a potentially deadly choice.

“And does the hospital suspect you of planting such a poison pill in their potential deal?” I ask.

The man’s smile is wide. “No, they thought my idea to really show Goldstone all the hospital had to offer was genius. I was able to make it as a casual suggestion through a buddy of mine. Made it easy for their board to take it as a good recommendation. But they have no idea about . . . this.”

“So are you assured that you’ve been able to poison the deal?”

“It isn’t perfect,” my man admits. “You know he’s driven, and more than once, through sheer force of will or stubbornness, he’s made chicken salad out of chicken shit.”

My mouth pinches, and I set my brandy aside. I understand my man’s background has taught him such language is acceptable in the company of men, but I have other expectations.

“You should learn that a foul mouth is best saved for only the most exclusive of situations. Overuse of it in inappropriate times only makes you seem uneducated and crass. Although, Golden Boy does deserve stronger language than what you might normally use.”

“That’s true, sir. I can assure you that the Ruthless Bastard is going to fall. The only question I have is, will I let him know who’s slipped the knife in his ribs when he goes down, or will I just enjoy the fruits of my labor?”

I shrug, unconcerned. Still, I know when I’m being asked for advice. “You know what cost Marcus Junius Brutus his life?”

“Killing Caesar?”

I pick up my snifter again, downing the rest of it in a single gulp. “No, his error was in letting it be known that he’d done so.”

The truth, of course, is much more complicated. Entire books, entire careers, have been made on studying the political machinations of the transition period between the Roman Republic and the Roman Empire. It’s actually a delightful bit of study that I’ve indulged in, and far more than what any television show or movie has been able to replicate. It makes House of Cards look like Sesame Street.

A more nuanced answer would be not that Brutus let it be known, but that he then didn’t crush his adversaries when he had the power to do so.

Not that my underling would grasp the nuances of power. He sees power as a blunt tool.

“Of course, sir. May I ask, what will you do while this is . . . ripening?”

I chuckle, a chilling sound that makes even my man shiver. Ripening . . . it’s a fine choice of words.

“What I always do. Consolidate power.”