‘Twas the Week Before Christmas
Tawny Weber
To my awesome brothers, Ron and Kevin!
I love you guys.
HOLIDAYS SUCKED.
Gage Milano had no issue with the idea of a holiday. Celebrations were great. Kinda like parties, which he rocked. Or remembering and commemorating events, which showed respect. Gage was all for respect.
But holidays?
Holidays meant family.
Obligation.
That freaking heritage crap.
Gage looked up from his plate. Crystal glinted, china gleamed. Ornate flower arrangements in fall tones lined the center of the rosewood table big enough to seat two dozen people. Which was twenty-one more than were sitting here now.
Stupid.
There was a perfectly sized, comfortable table in the breakfast room. But no. Couldn’t eat Thanksgiving dinner in the breakfast room. Not because it wasn’t fancy enough. Nope. Gage figured it was because his father was still trying to drive home the fact that in the Milano dynasty, he still had the biggest...table.
Marcus Milano was all about who was biggest. Best. Holding the most control. Something he loved, probably more than his sons. He’d taught Gage and Devon to be fierce competitors. From playing T-ball to pitching deals, he’d set the bar high and dared both his sons to accept nothing but a win. Unfortunately, with two of them, that meant one of them was always losing. Something Marcus always found a way to capitalize on.
As if hearing Gage’s thoughts and ready to prove them right, Marcus looked up from his perfectly sliced turkey and portion-controlled serving of carbs to bellow down the table.
“Gage. New venture for you to take on.”
Ahh, dinnertime demands. The Milano version of conversation.
“No room.” Gage scooped up a forkful of chestnut dressing and shot his father a cool smile. “I’m in meetings with my own clients next week, then I’m on vacation.”
“Make room,” Marcus barked. “I want this account.”
Ahh, the joys of being under the cozy family umbrella. Gage might be thirty years old, have a rep as a marketing genius, be the VP of a Fortune 500 company and own his own marketing start-up, which was quickly racking up enough success that he’d be forced to make some decisions soon.
But in his father’s mind he was still at the old man’s beck and call. There to do the guy’s bidding.
It wasn’t that Gage didn’t appreciate the opportunities Milano had afforded him. But dammit, the company’s success was as much because of him as anyone else. When he and Devon had come on board six years previous, it’d been sinking under the economic collapse. Between Devon’s restructuring and Gage’s marketing, they’d turned it around.
The old guy didn’t see it that way, though. To him, he was Milano and his sons simply adjuncts.
Gage glared down the table. Pointless, since his father was nearsighted and too far away to notice. Not that he’d care if he could. Marcus Milano had built his rep on not giving a damn. So Gage shifted his anger across the table at his brother.
Devon, his black hair and blue eyes the spitting image of their father, only grinned.
“You’re the king of the sales pitch, little brother. You know how we depend on you for these special projects.”
Devon was also the king of bullshit.
“I don’t have time,” Gage repeated,