Page 69 of Poison Aches

“Ah yes. It’s pouring out, yes.” Andres quickly leaves and then in a moment, he’s back with a dome-shaped cover for the tray.

The theatrics of it all don’t go unnoticed but my attention is on the paper on the tray.

Obviously Rip is taking it to Grandfather, but why now in the middle of the fucking night?

Why aNew York Timespaper? And why the fuck is this happening like it’s been staged?

“Are you ready, Young Master?” Ripley says, drawing my attention.

“Go ahead first,” I mutter.

Both he and Andres nod, bow their heads, and then they leave.

Something’s up for sure.

I fish out my phone and shoot a quick message to Kai and Ty.

Then I straighten myself up. I’m just in a black shirt and a simple pair of black slacks.

The occasion demands etiquette, but I’ll be damned if I ever conform to anyone’s fucking standards and expectations.

I do what I please with every single heartbeat.

It’s raining harder now than when I first arrived. I guess even the Heavens are protesting this farce.

I grab the black umbrella left for me, most likely by Ripley, and make my way out.

I go down the stairs, then cross the large backyard, go down the paved path lit softly by glowing lamps spaced out every eight paces, you’d think this is a fairy tale.

But when you get to the end of the path, you’d figure that this is hell on earth.

Up ahead at the very end of the huge backyard, past the black wrought iron gates, is the Easton Family burial plot.

A cemetery unknown to the world or the powers that be.

A place where skeletons, secrets, and everything that goes against the Family lies buried.

“Emmett, take a good look at this place. This here, is where our entire family is buried.”

“Our entire family? What about the plot in Westbrook Blues, the one with the other families?”

“You tell me.”

“It’s a game.” Everything about Westbrook Blues is a game.

“And don’t you dare forget how to play it.”

“I won’t, Grandpa.”

And I never will.

The graveyard serves as a perfect backdrop for tonight’s events, and I know this was Grandfather’s intention all along.

When it comes to setting up a stage, no one does it quite like the eighty-seven-year-old shrewd Godfather of the most ruthless dominating Outfit in the underbelly.

The old man knows how to send a message across. I guess, in some respects, I got that from him.

I make my way towards the sea of black umbrellas raised to shield from the rain that’s now pouring with a ferocity that would shake the hearts of lesser men, but there’s only silence and stillness among the hundred men and a few women gathered here.

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