Monday—November 23th, 2020

Gareth relied on four rules to maintain his sanity when the subject was his father.

One: They didn't talk unless absolutely necessary.

Two: All absolutely necessary conversations were to be kept as brief as possible.

Three: Should any absolutely necessary conversations last more than five full minutes, it was always best to have someone else present.

And four: For the purpose of achieving points one, two, and three, Gareth would spend most of his time away from home.

In other words, away from his father.

When he bothered to think about it, which wasn't often now that he had his avoidance tactics down to a science, Gareth thought that these principles served him well. And they served Angelo Guido, too, who liked his younger son about as much as his younger son liked him. Gareth wasn't quite sure when the relationship deteriorated. They never got along, he thought, but there had been a time when they could at least be civil to one another.

Before. Before Gareth became what Guido called a 'good-for-nothing.' Before Gareth started to disappear with a friend or two, in crazy one day long adventures, spending the family money and slandering the family name.

It was in one of such events that he was summoned to a meeting with his old man.

So here he was, pacing around the foyer of Clair Hall. He was nervous. Whatever his father wanted, it couldn't be good news. They had barely ever spoken in years. Guido had no expectations of his younger son and that was all good as far as Gareth was concerned—it was hard to disappoint someone who didn't expect anything from you.

There was nothing like living down to expectations, after all.

Gareth felt like a stranger in his own home as he waited for his father. He'd spent so little time here in the last nine years it was difficult to feel much in the way of attachment. To him, it was nothing but a pile of stones that belonged to his father. Nothing of the house, and nothing of the St. Clair fortunes felt like his, although technically it was more Gareth's, who'd been born half a St. Clair, than his dad's, who had only married one.

Gareth had few memories of his mother, who had died in an accident when he was five, but even he could recall her tousling his hair and laughing about how he was never serious.

"My restless bambino," she used to say, followed by a whispered, "Don't lose that. Whatever you do, don't lose it."

He hadn't.

The only good thing about coming home was seeing his brother George, but Gareth couldn't find George anywhere. What a bleak day.

"There you are."

Gareth turned around. His father was staring at him through cold gray eyes. He didn't look well, Gareth thought idly, which was strange—his father always looked well. Angelo Guido was fit and strong and gave the appearance of a man two decades younger than his fifty-odd years. But today he looked tired, old, with dark bags under his icy stare. Like something was terribly wrong.

Gareth considered saying, "Sir." He considered saying, "Here I am." He even considered uttering the word, "Father," but in the end he just slouched against the wall and crossed his arms.

His father looked unimpressed. "Stand up straight," he snapped and his voice sounded hoarse. "How many times must I ask you to behave?"

Gareth waited a second, then asked, "Am I meant to answer that, or was it a rhetorical question?"

His father's skin reddened.

Gareth swallowed. He shouldn't have said that. He'd known that his sarcasm would infuriate his dad, but sometimes it was so damned hard to keep his mouth shut. He took some satisfaction in making the old man as miserable as the old man made him. One had to take one's pleasures where one could.

"I am surprised you've come," his father said.

Gareth blinked in confusion. "You asked me to," he said. And the miserable truth was—he'd never defied his father. Not really. He poked, he prodded, he was insolent and arrogant, but he had never disobeyed a direct order.

Miserable coward that he was.

In his dreams, he fought back. In his dreams, he told his father exactly what he thought of him, but in reality, his defiance was limited to whistles and sullen looks.

"So I did," his father said, leaning back slightly in his chair. "But I never issue an order with the expectation that you will follow it correctly. You rarely do."

Gareth said nothing.

His father stood and walked to a nearby table, where he kept a decanter of brandy. "I imagine you're wondering what this is all about," he said.

Gareth gave a slight shrug, but his father didn't bother to look at him, so he added, "Yes, sir."

Guido took a sip of his brandy, leaving Gareth waiting, but there was something odd even in this common act. Finally, he turned, and with a cool stare said, "George died last night."

Gareth's head jerked in surprise. For a split second, he thought his father was playing a prank on him. But then it dawned on him that, although his old man was possibly evil enough to do that, he didn't have the sense of humor pranks required to be pulled off.

"W-what?"

George was the golden son. Just as Gareth did everything wrong, George did everything right. And George was the main reason Gareth and Guido could co-exist. Guido put most of his attention on George, letting Gareth off the hook. George would follow their father's footsteps. George mattered most.

Gareth never resented George for that. George was a good brother, a good man. They were best friends; they used to do everything together before George went to college. And now he was... what? Gone? Forever? Without saying goodbye? How was that possible?

"What?" Gareth said again, unsure if he had heard his father right.

Guido took another drink, then set his glass down. "He fell off a balcony," he half clarified. He turned to his son and looked at him directly for the first time during the interview. "At a party. He's dead."

But that wasn't possible. Twenty year olds didn't just die like that. George was a strong, healthy man. That made no sense. He couldn't be dead.

"What?" Gareth said a third time, nearly gagging on the word. "How—"

Guido sighed loudly, as if annoyed that he had to explain something so simple. "George is dead, Gareth," he confirmed. "That's the last time I'm going to say it."

Gareth grabbed the back of a chair to keep from swerving. This couldn't be happening. George was far too young to die. Gareth glanced out the window—it was morning—it was sunny. Gareth couldn't help thinking, as he shaded his eyes against the brilliant sunlight, that it was mocking him in some way. George was gone. Just like Mom.

There was no one left. Alone. Terribly alone. What right did the sun have to shine?

"I suppose you can see our predicament," his father continued. "You are heir to St. Clair Enterprises. You." He said that like it hurt him more than the death of his son.

"What does that mean?" Gareth whispered, numbstruck.

Guido's eyes clamped down on his son. "It means you will come to own the third of St. Clair Enterprises that belonged to your mother," he said sharply. "When you're of age."

Gareth wasn't sure what to say. Were they really talking business right now? "Do I have to do anything?"

"Yes." His father made a face. "Sign the company over to me. That way you'll be free of all responsibilities. Isn't that what you've always wanted, Gareth?"

Gareth fought for air. This couldn't be happening. It was his family's company. His, not Guido's. "I... I can't—"

One of his father's bushy brows inched toward his hair-line. "You can, and you will." He walked toward his son until they were uncomfortably close. "You can't run a company, Gareth, not even a third of one. You're not fit to a job like this. Signing it to me and you'll be preserving what your mother's family created."

Gareth said nothing. He didn't do much of anything, either. It was all he could manage just to breathe. Poor George... George was dead. How could he be dead? Gareth just stared at his father, words failing him. For the first time in his life, he had no easy reply, no flip retort.

There were no words. Simply no words for such a moment.

"I see we understand each other," Guido said, smiling at his son's silence.

"No!" Gareth burst out, the single syllable ripping itself from his throat. "No. It's not yours to take. It was Mom's. It was George's."

"Yes, it was. And now they're gone. So I have no choice and you have no choice." His father's eyes narrowed. "You can sign it over to me by your own free will, or I can force you."

"No." Gareth felt like he was choking, but somehow he got the words out. "Why are we talking about this now? George is—" He couldn't bring himself to say it. "When is the funeral?"

"It already happened," his father said matter-of-factly. "You were late for it. There is nothing else to discuss, Gareth. Do what is right for St. Clair Enterprises. Sign it over. We can agree on an allowance even, if you will."

"Why?" He heard himself saying, the word sounding like a wounded animal, pathetic and plaintive. "Why are you so cold?" His father said nothing, just stood there, gripping the edge of his desk until his knuckles grew white. And Gareth could do nothing but stare, somehow transfixed by the ordinary sight of his father's hands. "He was your son," he whispered, still unable to move his gaze from his father's hands to his face. "I'm your son. How can you just..." his words failed him again and Gareth had no idea what he needed to say. 

And then his father, who was the master of the cutting retort, whose anger always came dressed in ice rather than fire, exploded. His hands flew from the table, and his voice roared through the room like a demon.

"By God, how could you not have figured it out by now? You are not my son! You have never been my son! You are nothing but a by-blow, some mangy whelp your mother got off another man while I was away, in business, for this goddamn company! I deserve this! George deserved it! You don't!" Rage poured forth like some hot, desperate thing, too long held captive and repressed. It hit Gareth like a wave, swirling around him, squeezing and choking until he could barely breathe. "George was my son! My beautiful perfect son, and he's been taken from me. God has cursed me with you."

Well, that was nothing Gareth hadn't considered, nothing he hadn't even hoped for, and it definitely wasn't worse than the news about his brother. And yet... it hurt.

"I have kept you," Guido said, his voice low and hard. "I presented you to the world as my son. It is past time you show me a little gratitude." He closed the distance between them and put his face very close to Gareth's. "You have been acknowledged and you are legitimate." And then, in a voice furious and low: "You owe me."

"No," Gareth said, his voice finally finding the conviction he was going to need to last him a lifetime. "No."

"If you refuse me this," Guido warned, "I will take everything else. You can—"

"No," Gareth said again, and he sounded different. Changed. This was the end, he realized. The end of his childhood, the end of his innocence, and the beginning of—

God only knew what it was the beginning of.

"I carry the St. Clair name, not you. That company belonged to my mother and it will pass on to me."

There was a brief moment of silence.

"Get out," his father—no, not his father—hissed. "Get OUT!"