For the record, I never asked to be born in the Fitzgerald family.
Back in the 19th Century, my great-great grandfather was a cattle rancher who had started a modest meat business that turned into an empire that made my family filthy rich. On the outside, my family was made up of successful, wealthy socialites, politicians, and doctors that gave generous donations. All of that was a façade to hide the debauchery, drug abuse, domestic violence, and corruption that had plagued my family for generations. I wanted no part in that, so I left as soon as I had turned 18, vowing to never return. That was, until my father's people called me to let me know that he was dying.
William Fitzgerald the Fourth, my old man, the person who had made my childhood a living hell, wanted to make peace with me before he met his maker.
My mother had been the second of his four wives, and, from what I've been told, she was the only one that made him truly happy. After she died of cancer when I was ten, I watched my dad turn into a monster. When he wasn't hitting the bottle, or banging his mistresses, he was taking his rancor out on me. His actions were enough for me to walk away from a life of luxury.
So here I was, 25 years old, driving up to my family's palatial compound. After I gave the car keys to the valet, I heaved a sigh as I walked into the mansion. One of the servants escorted me to the master bedroom. As I walked down the halls, bad memories from my younger years made me recall all the ominous walks I made down this hallway, which usually ended with me getting yelled at and spanked with a belt. I took a deep breath to steel myself as the door was opened for me.
"That you, boy?"
"Yes, sir," I said in a monotone voice.
Gone was the tall, virile, handsome man that had dominated my life. He had been replaced by a feeble, white-haired skeleton lying in a bed with a nasal cannula on his face. My fears turned to pity at the sight of my dying father.
"Come over here," he said gently. "Sit in that chair. Don't worry; this old man's lost his bite."
I obliged him and sat down, looking at him silently, not knowing what to say except, "How long?"
"About a week. Seventy-seven is a pretty good age to die. It's about the same age my daddy went. I'd have probably lived longer if I had showed some restraint against my...darker impulses."
I shifted uneasily in my chair as memories of my dad's drunken rages flashed through my mind like a horror movie.
"Listen, boy," he said. After a short coughing fit, he regained his composure and said, "I'm leaving you my part of the company."
My eyes went Looney Tunes huge. "WHAT?"
My father seemed to think that my reaction was hilarious. "I knew you'd be like that. Thanks for making an old man feel better as he circles the drain."
"Why the hell are you leaving me your part of the company?!? You...you hate me!"
"I don't hate you...I just...didn't like that you defied me. Since the day you were born, I tried everything to make you a real Fitzgerald: top schools, boxing lessons, hunting. You fought me every step of the way."
"Yeah, I doubt Mom would have done things differently."
My father paused at the mention of my deceased mother. For a second, I thought I could see tears in his eyes, which was like seeing a unicorn. I actually felt bad for taking a verbal jab at a man on his death bed.
"Well, that's probably true. After you left, I disowned you, took away your trust fund, and tried to put you out of my mind. And what do you do? You put yourself through college, started your own business, and never once asked the family for help!"
"So?"
"Your siblings NEVER had that kind of drive. They always used their family name to get out of trouble: speeding tickets, pregnant girlfriends, you name it. They've been sucking at my teat well into their adulthood, but, you went out and made something of yourself."
I couldn't help but smile; this might have been the first time my dad had given me praise.
"They won't be happy when this news drops," I told him.
"Fuck em," my old man grumbled. "So, what do you say? You want my shares?"
"Sure," I said. "I'll just use the money to grow my own business."
"That's a good boy," the old man said with a grin. "However, if you want my money, you'll have to fulfill one tiny requirement. Otherwise, the only thing you're getting in my will are boxes of the shit you left in my house from when you were a kid."
My eyes narrowed at the mention of this newly-revealed condition to my massive inheritance. "What do I need to do?"
My father reached into his bedside table and handed me a small piece of paper. "Go to this address. Once you're done, come straight back here."
A few minutes later, I was back in my car, on my way to whatever place my dad had sent me. Several strange scenarios went through my head as I drew nearer to my destination. I was somewhat convinced that the address was a place where my dad had stationed a hit squad to riddle me with bullets and dispose of my body, to rid himself of his wayward son.
Google Maps at last brought me to a cozy little house in a suburban neighborhood. After parking in the driveway, I got out and walked to the door. After ringing the bell, I was greeted by a beautiful woman.
The woman was my height, but extremely curvaceous. Even though she was dressed modestly in a purple long-sleeved shirt and a long denim dress, I had to fight not to stare at her prodigious bosom and magnificent backside. She had olive skin that made me wonder if she was Native American or maybe Spanish. Her immaculate face was framed by a long mane of straight ebony hair that fell gracefully around her shoulders. Her exotic beauty had me at a loss for words; fortunately, she was the one who spoke first.
