The Villain

The fact she was a wallflower and he was a modern-day Don Corleone didn’t faze her in the least.

“What about you, mo òrga?” Athair turned to me. My nickname meant My Golden in Irish Gaelic. I was the proverbial modern Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold. Shaped and molded in his hands. Although, judging by the fact I’d given him nothing but bad press ever since I inherited the CEO position, I wasn’t sure the moniker was fitting anymore.

It wasn’t about my performance. There wasn’t a soul in Royal Pipelines who could surpass me in skill, knowledge, and instincts. But I was a soulless, impersonal man. The opposite of the patriarch people wanted to see at the head of a company that killed rainforests and robbed Mother Nature of her natural resources on a daily basis.

“What about me?” I cut my salmon into even, minuscule pieces. My OCD was more prominent when I was under pressure. Doing something ritually gave me a sense of control.

“When will you give me grandchildren?”

“I suggest you direct this question at my wife.”

“You don’t have a wife.”

“Guess I won’t be having children anytime soon, either. Unless you’re impartial to ill-conceived bastards.”

“Over my dead body,” my father hissed.

Don’t tempt me, old man.

“When are you announcing the pregnancy publicly?” Athair turned to Hunter, losing interest in the subject of my hypothetical offspring.

“Not before the end of the second trimester,” Sailor supplied, laying a protective hand over her stomach. “My OB-GYN warned me the first trimester is the rockiest. Plus, it’s bad luck.”

“But a good headline for Royal Pipelines.” Father stroked his chin, contemplating. “Especially after the Green Living demonstration and the idiot who managed to break both her legs. The press was all over that story.”

I was tired of hearing about it. Like Royal Pipelines had anything to do with the fact a dimwit had decided to climb up my grandfather’s statue on the busiest square in Boston with a megaphone and fell.

Athair helped himself to a third serving of honey-baked salmon, his three chins vibrating as he spoke.

“Ceann beag has been the media’s darling for the past couple of years. Nice, hard-working, approachable. A reformed playboy. Maybe he should be the face of the company for the next few months until the headlines blow over.”

Ceann beag meant little one. Even though Hunter was the middle child, my father had always treated him as the youngest. Perhaps because Ash was wise beyond her years, but more than likely because Hunter had the maturity of a Band-Aid.

I put my utensils down, fighting the twitch in my jaw while slipping my hands under the table to crack my knuckles again.

“You want to put my twenty-seven-year-old brother as the head of Royal Pipelines because he managed to impregnate his wife?” I inquired, my voice calm and even. I’d busted my ass at Royal Pipelines since my early teens, taking my place at the throne at the cost of having no personal life, no social life, and no meaningful relationships. Meanwhile, Hunter was jumping from one mass orgy to the next in California until my dad dragged him by the ear back to Boston to clean up his act.

“Look, Cillian, we’ve been facing a lot of backlash because of the refinery explosion and exploratory Arctic drills,” Athair groused.

Cillian. Not mo òrga.

“The refinery explosion happened under your watch, and my Arctic exploration rigs will likely up our revenue by five billion dollars by 2030,” I pointed out, thumbing the rim of my brandy glass. “In the eight months I’ve been doing this job, our stock has gone up fourteen percent. Not too shabby for a rookie CEO.”

“Not all tyrants make bad kings.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your achievements mean nothing if the people want you dethroned.”

“No one wants me dethroned.” I gave him a pitying look. “The board has my back.”

“Everyone else in the company wants to stab it,” he roared, crashing his fist over the dining table. “The board only cares about the profits, and they’d vote however I wanted them to vote if it came down to it. Don’t get too comfortable.”

Utensils clattered, plates flew, and wine splattered over the tablecloth like blood drops. My pulse was still calm. My face tranquil.

Keep it together.

“You scare your employees, the media loathes you, and to the rest of the public, you’re a mystery. No family of your own. No partner. No kids. No anchor. Don’t think I haven’t spoken to Devon. I happen to be of the same mindset as your lawyer. You need someone to dilute your darkness, and you need her fast. Sort this out, Cillian, and do it fast. The press calls you The Villain. Make them stop.”

Feeling the tic in my jaw, I pursed my lips.

“Are you done being hysterical, Athair?”

My father pushed off the table, rising to his feet with a finger pointed at me.

“I called you mo òrga because I never had to worry about you. You always delivered whatever I needed before I’d even asked for it. The first perfect eldest Fitzpatrick child in generations since your great-great-great-grandfather made his way from Kilkenny to Boston on a rickety boat. But that has changed. You’re pushing forty, and it’s time you settle down. Especially if you want to continue being the face of this company. In case your job is not a strong enough incentive, let me spell it out for you.” He leaned toward me, his eyes leveling mine. “The next in line for the throne is Hunter, and right now, the person after him is your future niece or nephew. Everything you’ve worked for will be handed down to them. Everything. And if you fuck this up, I will make sure to dethrone you, too.”

He stalked out of the dining hall, ripping a portrait of all three of us Fitzpatrick siblings from the wall.

Mother darted up from her seat, running around to her estate manager to no doubt order them to get the portrait reframed and redone.

I smiled serenely, addressing everyone at the table.

“More food for us.”

I spent the rest of the weekend in Monaco.

Just like my loveable idiot of a brother, I, too, had a taste for unconventional sex.

Unlike my loveable idiot of a brother, I knew better than to have it with random women.

I’d made bi-monthly trips to Europe, spending time with carefully selected, discreet women who’d agreed to ironclad arrangements. Sleeping with a woman required more paperwork than buying a spaceship. I’d always been careful, and dealing with a sex scandal on top of the farce that was my public image wasn’t in my plans.