Saxon sighs. "I mean, I don't think any of us will sell it, mainly because it's worth so much that it'd take like a fuckin' decade to sell. I'm not sure where you'd even start pricing it, honestly. Several hundred million, probably, at a guess. It's not just the land, or the house, or the barns, but the history. It's our legacy." He growls. "Fuck, it's complicated, okay? Our father was a goddamn monster. We all hated him. And I mean, truly and deeply hated." It's funny—his street-wise persona and accent slips, here. He's more well-spoken, a little more proper. I don't think he even notices. "Everywhere I look, there's a memory of my dad being a fucking abusive tyrant. But there's other shit, too. Mom."
He shakes his head. His jaw clamps shut and he says nothing else as we finish the drive to the house.
It's massive. Like something out of Bridgerton or Downton Abbey, all white stone and black wood trim, arched doorways and a slate roof and the kind of glass that's so old it has bubbles in it—some of the windows are stained glass, possibly taken from an old church. The driveway circles in front of the mansion, with a huge marble fountain in the middle, a Greco-Roman replica of a naked woman pouring water out of a pitcher.
The steps leading up to the main doorway feature six-foot-high stone lions captured mid-roar.
A side door opens and an elderly man marches to us—I say “march,” because his gait is stiff and precise and proper, military. He's tall and thin, with white hair in a precise side part. He's wearing a full-ass tuxedo.
He rounds the hood and opens Saxon's door. "Mr. Saxon, welcome." His voice is almost a Transatlantic accent, not quite British, but almost. "You've missed Mr. Silas by a matter of hours."
"Oh yeah? And Sol?"
"I’ve not seen him since before the funeral, sir."
"Silas took a car?" Saxon asks.
"Yes sir. The DB5, sir."
"Figures. He always did like that one." Saxon unfolds from the car and the butler or—whatever he is—opens my door next. Tom and Emily don’t wait, getting out on their own. "Listen, Graham. You need to hire some additional security. And I mean real security, not rent-a-cops. Dudes that used to be military—armed, and not afraid to pull the trigger. Anyone who's not me, Silas, or Solomon, shoot them. Don’t ask questions. Don't ask for ID. Don't warn them. Shoot them in the fuckin' skull. You got me, Graham?"
Graham nods, once, and pulls a cell phone from his inner suit coat pocket, finds a contact, and calls it. "Gerald? Graham. Increase security to code red. Immediately. Re-vette all staff. Excellent. Thank you."
Saxon nods. "Great. Now, next order of business." He nods at Emily and Tom. "I want an expense account in their names arranged. Cap it at…" he eyes them, thinking. "Two mil a year, in perpetuity. Is that doable?"
Graham does mental calculations. "Yes, sir. You and your brothers have hardly touched your expense accounts, let alone your inheritances. I can draw from yours, with your permission."
"Done. But I want it hidden. Shells and fronts and shit, and make sure taxes are taken care of before they see it. Get fancy with that shit."
"I'll put Edward on it, sir." Graham sends a text and then returns his attention to Saxon. "There is more, sir?"
"Yes. I'm gonna need the Daytona, and the papers for it. Enclosed delivery, with a discreet driver, hired for silence. Send it to this address." He rattles off a New Jersey address. "For myself, I want something new and powerful that won't stand out." A pause. “The Cadillac we came in I want sent to Mick’s and have him fix it up like new, on my account.”
"The last purchase your father made was an armored Range Rover, a coachbuilt vehicle. It's rated to withstand automatic weapons fire, I believe, but looks very much like your average Range Rover."
"Perfect. Gas it up and bring it around." Saxon turns to Emily and Tom. "Where do you want to go?"
Emily is just staring, open-mouthed. "Wait, wait, wait. Can we go back to 'expense account' and 'cap it at two mil a year'?"
Saxon smirks. "My way of apologizing."
"Yeah, I gathered that, but can you…elaborate? Like, what's an expense account, and what does two mil a year mean?"
Saxon arches an eyebrow. "It means you and Tom will, by the end of the week, I’d think, have a joint bank account. In it, you will have two million dollars, after taxes, per year. For the rest of your lives. Each year, it will refresh. If you spend all two million, or one penny, doesn't matter. You need more, just ask. No oversight, no daily limits. Yours, free and clear, to do with as you like. If you want, I can have Edward, our family money man, handle it for you. Meaning invest so it multiplies. It's what I’d recommend. In five years, you'll have a hefty retirement nest egg. In ten, you'll have generational wealth."
"But…" Tom stares. "How? Why?"
Saxon claps him on the shoulder. "I fucked up your wedding. I can't give that back. But what I do have is access to more money than God. Look around, man. My personal annual expense account is at, fuckin'…eight mil? Right, Graham?"
"Six, sir. Four, after I divert the funds for your friends."
"We can’t take two million dollars a year from you, Saxon," Emily protests.
Saxon chortles. "You can, and you will. That's just my personal allowance. I don’t use it. Never have. My brother and I ran away from home and lived in a car rather than use family money. And then we went to work for The Cabal. I made serious bank in my years with them and spent very little of it. Plus, I get paid insane money now, and spend none of it. I could fund your expense account from my own personal account from the money I earned myself and never feel it. But I like using Cabot family money for this because, for one, it's just sitting there doing nothing, and two, my money is blood money, earned by hits, and I doubt you want that shit on your conscience. And three, using family money gets you access to Edward's financial wizardry, which I can't provide."
Tom swallows hard. "Two million dollars a year? Forever?"
"That's the idea. Once all this bullshit settles, with my death or otherwise, you'll be able to buy a nice house. Pay bills. Go on vacation. Quit your jobs and live in a villa in the Caribbean drinking mojitos all day, if you want." He snaps his fingers. "Enough of that. I need to send you two on a honeymoon. Somewhere far away from here. Paris? Tahiti? Reykjavik? Pick a place. Where have you always wanted to go?"
