He leans forward, eyes intent as I rake my fork over my last bite of pureed cauliflower.
“That’s okay, Dom. It takes time—a lifetime for some—but it requires truly living and experiencing the world outside of books through your own perspective. Leaving Triple Falls is your chance to discover yourself outside our mutual purpose and decide what kind of man you want to be.” He pauses, knowing he has my attention. “I’m sharing this with you because I felt completely fucking lost my first year in France. I had no idea who I was. You’ve surpassed me by miles in some respects, but I’m worried because you haven’t evolved past the limits you were made to believe you have. You have to try, Dom, for yourself. I’m scared of how lonely you’ll be if you don’t.”
“I don’t get lonely,” I counter.
“Because it’s been such a constant state for you that you don’t recognize it anymore. You prefer isolation because it’s safe.”
I remain mute as he leans in. “You can talk to me about this, brother.”
“Why?” I snap defensively. “Because you’re managing to pull off the scam so well?”
“No more than anyone else here is. But yes, I’m a chameleon and will remain one, and so will you.”
“Is this dinner sponsored by overused slogans? Now it’s ‘fake it until you make it?’”
“No,” he grits out. “Always fucking fake it. We’ve already made it, but if people catch wind of that, they’ll only try to drag us down—make our lives harder out of envy, spite, or both. So, keep the grudge but hide the fangs. But make no mistake,” he warns, “most interactions between humans are just a formality. When people ask how you are, most don’t give a fuck, and that’s all that interaction with outsiders is, Dom—a formality. So, don’t waste energy, time, or effort on the people with whom you’re only meant to exchange formalities. It’s when you can’t fake it with someone who consistently shows up for you without motive that you’ll know they’re deserving of all three.”
I can’t help my grin. “This monologue of yours is a bit cliché, don’t you think? Like a mobster delivering life advice before getting whacked or run over by a milk truck.”
He shakes his head, tossing in an exaggerated eye roll. “Your constant vitriol is exhausting, brother.”
“I learned from the best, and it’s not like this,” I glance around, “is really that much of a stretch for you. You like this atmosphere and dressing that way,” I point out.
He shrugs. “I like expensive wine and clothes, and things we never imagined we could ever afford and now can, so why aren’t you at least allowing a little of that in? You haven’t spent a fucking dime since we added zeros to our net worth. At the very least, you need to order a new fucking mattress, but you haven’t, and I know why. Look at me, Dom.”
I snap my eyes to his.
“Press through your mindset limit and decide your own potential. Once you figure that out, we’ll forge a fire so fucking big—no one will ever be able to overlook it or escape it.”
Twisting his glass stem, he stares at it contemplatively. “It’s laughable now how comfortable most of the men of our time are,” he ponders. “The men in your history book who really did something with their lives and raised actual fucking swords in defense of their beliefs. Who spilled blood in the streets without flinching, declared themselves outlaws, and sacrificed every comfort while fearlessly fighting to the death. While more civilized negotiations have become part of the progression from Neanderthal to the modern man—who use brain over brute force—there’s something to be said for those men of the past. I’m pretty sure those trailblazers weren’t getting regular mani-pedis.”
We both chuckle as he plucks the bottle and fills our glasses, a buzz humming steadily through me. “So, take this time to live some life outside of the club because one day in the near future, we’re going to be fighting in the streets—maybe in more expensive clothes, armed with better, foolproof plans, but fighting nonetheless.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, taking a hearty sip. He grins as he lifts a finger for the waiter, who nearly trips over himself getting to our table.
“Yes, sir?”
Tobias pushes the check back toward him. “We’re going to have dessert.”
“Which one, sir?”
“Every selection on the menu. We’re celebrating,” he boasts proudly. “My brother is going to attend MIT.”
“Ah,” the man barely spares me a glance. “Excellent, sir, congratulations.” The waiter takes off as we eye each other over the table.
“I don’t think he gave a fuck,” I muse.
“He doesn’t,” Tobias retorts jovially, “he’s probably sweating about how much of a tip we’re going to leave. Even a shrink shows up for money. Now look around.”
I do. My last stop is the table of women currently looking our way. Making it a point to, I catch the come fuck me eyes of one of them as Tobias speaks. “They’re no better than you are, Dom. Not fucking one of them. You’re the biggest threat in this room. That’s a fact, so believe it.”
The woman’s eyes dart away before I turn back to see him lifting his glass to toast. “To the long game.”
“To the long game,” I parrot as we clink glasses, the buzz intensifying.
“Let’s play hard, brother,” he winks before we drink.
Glass still tilted, Tobias’s eyes light over the rim as he catches sight of someone over my shoulder. Tabling his wine, he abruptly stands. “Ah, finally, I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”
“Sorry about that,” the man replies, approaching our table with a mischievous gleam in his eyes as they shake hands. My own eyes trail over the man in recognition as he shifts his focus on me. Exuding confidence, he extends a hand in offering. “Finally, the prodigal brother. Nice to meet you, Dominic.”
Tobias beams with pride. “Dom, this is—”
“Congressman Monroe,” I say, already standing, extending my hand and shooting Tobias a confused look as we shake. In response, he gives me a conspiratorial wink.
Four hours and countless glasses later, Tobias turns just after exiting and slams me into closing the door of the town car he called after our vision blurred and doubled.
Releasing me, Tobias stumbles further back into the yard, drawing from his hip in declaration. “En garde!”
Gripping his nonexistent sword, foot stretched in front of him in a lunge pose, he arches his opposite arm over his head, fingers dangling above his crown. When I just stare at him, his shoulders drop as his expression goes limp. “It means draw your sword.”
“I know what it means, but drawing my sword will only embarrass you in front of the handmaidens,” I snort.
“All I’m hearing is that you’re too impotent to draw your steel,” he taunts.
“Don’t project, brother, I hear it happens to all men with age, and I’m more of a hand-to-hand man,” I declare, charging toward him. Feigning a successful dodge of the thrust of his invisible sword, I tackle him into the grass.