BIG: Crisis by Greyson Bryan

Author:Greyson Bryan [Bryan, Greyson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Magneto Books
Published: 2017-03-08T18:30:00+00:00

thirty-SEVEN

tuesDAY, JANUARY 25

los angeles

Ward rose early on the morning after the board meeting. He had slept soundly knowing the investigation into Aqua had been placed in the clumsy hands of his half brother, hands that would in any case be occupied by the gorgeous Ana. And how he had secretly reveled in Takayama-san’s unexpected suggestion that M.D. Corrales, a woman who was the product of some dingy, lower-middle-class subdivision in the Valley, a woman whose intelligence was no match for her inexperience and whose arrogance failed to mask her insecurity, was to interview Salah. Brilliant. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Washing away the wool in his mouth with sips of freshly squeezed orange juice, he prepared a double espresso on his Via Venezia, savoring the rich, roasty, slightly pungent aroma of the Lavazza beans. He frothed some whole milk and carefully poured the dark liquid through the froth. Letting his cappuccino cool, he picked up his phone and called Salah in Paris to update him and then Ron Danko in London to report on the preliminary results of Duncan Luke’s investigation. He gloated to neither about how well his plans were proceeding. He wanted them both on edge, vigilant. He couldn’t afford either one to become complacent. Satisfied with his morning, he emailed Elaine that he wouldn’t be coming in today and threw off his Thai silk robe and showered. He almost felt like singing until he remembered the date and abruptly turned the water off.

An hour later, dressed in a one of his three jet-black Armani suits, a high-collared white shirt, and dark-gray tie, he set out for Hillside Memorial Park in his Benz Roadster. Today was the anniversary of his mother’s death and he would make his annual pilgrimage to the site of her crypt. There her ashes lay in a simple black-and-white marble urn next to the rose-and-white marble urns that held the ashes of her parents, who had died in rapid succession almost exactly three years to the day after they had lost their daughter.

Many years ago, he had sworn not to enter the mausoleum, a graceful memorial made of Jerusalem stone, granite, and travertine, or shed a single tear of grief until he had avenged his family. So on this cool cloudy day as he had for many years, he spent the morning wandering the grounds accompanied by the fading memories of his mother’s gentle touch, the sweet scent of her lilac perfume, and the brush of her kiss on his cheek when she tucked him in at night. Then, as the sky blackened overhead, darker remembrances began to flood his heart: the night his mother had accused his father of stealing Bingham International from her family; the evening his father had chased his mother out of the house and her car had crashed on Sunset; the afternoon his father brought the scheming whore into his mother’s home and Ghislaine had enticed him to hug her; the nightmare on the flight to London where his mother had shrieked that his embracing Ghislaine had betrayed her and soiled him.

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