Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(2)

“You’ve never dropped a tray in your life,” I tell her.

My father takes fucking forever to eat his dessert. He’s sipping his wine and going on and on about the electrical workers’ union. I swear Dante is drawing him out on purpose to infuriate the rest of us. When we have these formal sit-down dinners, Papa expects us all to stay till the bitter end. No phones allowed at the table either, which is basically torture because I can feel my cell buzzing again and again in my pocket, with messages from who knows who. Hopefully not Oliver.

I broke up with Oliver Castle three months ago, but he isn’t taking the hint. He might need to take a mallet to the head instead if he doesn’t stop annoying me.

Finally, Papa finishes eating, and we all gather up as many plates and dishes as we can carry to stack in the sink for Greta.

Then Papa goes into his office to have his second nightcap, while Sebastian, Nero, and I all sneak downstairs.

We’re allowed to go out on a Saturday night. We’re all adults, after all—just barely, in my case. Still, we don’t want Papa to ask us where we’re going.

We pile into Nero’s car because it’s a boss ‘57 Chevy Bel Air that will be the most fun to cruise around in with the top down.

Nero starts the ignition, and in the flare of the headlights, we see Dante’s hulking silhouette, standing right in front of us, arms crossed, looking like Michael Meyers about to murder us.

Sebastian jumps and I let out a little shriek.

“You’re blocking the car,” Nero says drily.

“This is a bad idea,” Dante says.

“Why?” Nero says innocently. “We’re just going for a drive.”

“Yeah?” Dante says, not moving. “Right down Lake Shore Drive.”

Nero switches tactics.

“So what if we are?” he says. “It’s just some Sweet Sixteen party.”

“Nessa’s nineteen,” I correct him.

“Nineteen?” Nero shakes his head in disgust. “Why are they even—never mind. Probably some stupid Irish thing. Or just any excuse to show off.”

“Can we get going?” Sebastian says. “I don’t wanna be out too late.”

“Get in or get out of the way,” I say to Dante.

He stares at us a minute longer, then shrugs. “Fine,” he says, “but I’m riding shotgun.”

I climb over the seat without argument, letting Dante have the front. A small price to pay to get my big brother on team Party Crashers.

We cruise down LaSalle Drive, enjoying the warm early summer air streaming into the car. Nero has a black heart and a vicious temperament, but you’d never know it from the way he drives. In the car, he’s as smooth as a baby’s ass—calm and careful.

Maybe it’s because he loves the Chevy and has put about a thousand hours of work into it. Or maybe driving is the only thing that relaxes him. Either way, I always like seeing him with his arm stretched out on the wheel, the wind blowing back his sleek dark hair, his eyes half-closed like a cat.

It’s not far to the Gold Coast. Actually, we’re practically neighbors—we live in Old Town, which is directly north. Still, the two neighborhoods aren’t much alike. They’re both fancy in their own ways—our house looks right over Lincoln Park, theirs fronts onto the lake. But Old Town is, well, just what the name implies—pretty fucking old. Our house was built in the Victorian era. Our street is quiet, full of massive old oak trees. We’re close to St. Michael’s Church, which my father genuinely believes was spared the Chicago Fire by a direct act of god.

The Gold Coast is the new hotness. It’s all pish-posh shopping and dining and the mansions of the richest motherfuckers in Chicago. I feel like I sprang forward thirty years just driving over here.

Sebastian, Nero, and I thought we might sneak in around the back of the Griffin property—maybe steal some caterers’ uniforms. Dante, of course, isn’t participating in any of that nonsense. He just slips the security guard five Benjamins to “find” our name on the list, and the guy waves us on in.

I already know what the Griffins’ house looks like even before I see it, because it was big news when they bought it a few years back. At the time, it was the most expensive piece of residential real estate in Chicago. Fifteen thousand square feet for a cool twenty-eight million dollars.

My father scoffed and said it was just like the Irish to flash their money.

“An Irishman will wear a twelve-hundred-dollar suit without the money in his pocket to buy a pint,” he said.

True or not as a generality, the Griffins can buy plenty of pints if they want to. They’ve got money to burn, and they’re literally burning it right now, in the form of their fireworks show still trying to put Disneyworld to shame.

I don’t care about that, though—first thing I want is some of the expensive champagne being ferried around by the waiters, followed by whatever’s been stacked into a tower on the buffet table. I’m gonna do my best to bankrupt those snooty fucks by eating my weight in crab legs and caviar before I leave this place.

The party is outdoors on the sprawling green lawn. It’s the perfect night for it—more evidence of the luck of the Irish. Everybody’s laughing and talking, stuffing their faces and even dancing a little, though there’s no Demi Lovato performing yet, just a normal DJ.