The Boss's Nine-Month Negotiation

He stared at his parents with a raised eyebrow, letting the silent censure bounce off him. He’d long ago learned that nothing he said or did would ever change their attitude towards him. He was the spare they’d sired but never needed. His place would be on a shelf, fed, clothed, but collecting dust and nothing else. So he’d left home and stopped trying.

‘When was the last time you visited your brother?’ his mother enquired, her fixed expression breaking momentarily to allow a touch of humanity to filter through at the mention of Matias.

The question brought to mind his brother’s current state. Comatose in a hospital bed in Switzerland with worryingly low signs of brain activity.

Emiliano weathered the punch of sadness and brushed a speck of lint off his cuff. ‘Two weeks ago. And every two weeks before that since his accident four months ago,’ he replied.

His parents exchanged surprised glances. He curbed the urge to laugh. ‘If this is all you needed to know, you could’ve sent me an email.’

‘It isn’t. But we find it...reassuring that family still means something to you, seeing as you abandoned it without a backward glance,’ Benito stated.

The fine hairs on Emiliano’s nape lifted. ‘Reassuring? I guess it should be celebrated that I’ve done something right at last, then? But, at the risk of straying into falsehoods and hyperbole, perhaps let’s stick to the subject of why you asked me here.’

Benito picked up his glass and stared into the contents for a few seconds before he knocked it back and swallowed with a gulp. The action was so alien—his father’s outward poise a thing so ingrained it seemed part of his genetic make-up—that Emiliano’s jaw threatened to drop before he caught himself.

Setting the glass down with a brisk snap, another first, Benito eyed him with fresh censure. Nothing new there.

‘We’re broke. Completely destitute. Up the proverbial creek without a paddle.’

‘Excuse me?’ Emiliano wasn’t sure whether it was the bald language that alarmed him or his father’s continued acting out of character.

‘You wish me to repeat myself? Why? So you can gloat?’ his father snapped. ‘Very well. The polo business, the horse breeding. Everything has failed. The estate has been sliding into the red for the past three years, ever since Rodrigo Cabrera started his competing outfit here in Cordoba. We approached Cabrera and he bought the debt. Now he’s calling in the loans. If we don’t pay up by the end of next month, we will be thrown out of our home.’

Emiliano realised his jaw was clenched so tight he had to force it apart to speak. ‘How can that be? Cabrera doesn’t know the first thing about horse breeding. The last I heard he was dabbling in real estate. Besides, Castillo is the foremost polo-training and horse-breeding establishment in South America. How can you be on the brink of bankruptcy?’ he demanded.

His mother’s colour receded and her fingers twisted the white lace handkerchief in her hand. ‘Watch your tone, young man.’

Emiliano inhaled sharply, stopped the sharper words that threatened to spill and chose his words carefully. ‘Explain to me how these circumstances have occurred.’

His father shrugged. ‘You are a man of business...you know how these things go. A few bad investments here and there...’

Emiliano shook his head. ‘Matias was...is...a shrewd businessman. He would never have let things slide to the point of bankruptcy without mitigating the losses or finding a way to reverse the business’s fortunes. At the very least, he would’ve told me...’ He stopped when his parents exchanged another glance. ‘I think you should tell me what’s really going on. I’m assuming you asked me here because you need my help?’

Pride flared in his father’s eyes for a blinding moment before he glanced away and nodded. ‘Sí.’ The word was one Emiliano was sure he didn’t want to utter.

‘Then let’s have it.’

They remained stoically silent for several heartbeats before his father rose. He strode to a cabinet on the far side of the room, poured himself another drink and returned to his chair. Setting the glass down, he picked up a tablet Emiliano hadn’t spotted before and activated it.

‘Your brother left a message for you. Perhaps it would explain things better.’

He frowned. ‘A message? How? Matias is in a coma.’

Valentina’s lips compressed, distress marring her features for a brief second. ‘You don’t need to remind us. He recorded it before his brain operation, once the doctors gave him the possible prognosis.’

Emiliano couldn’t fault the pain in her voice or the sadness in her eyes. And, not for the first time in his life, he wondered why that depth of feeling for his brother had never spilt over for him.

Pushing the fruitless thought aside, he focused on the present. On what he could control.

‘That was two months ago. Why are you only telling me about this message now?’

‘We didn’t think it would be needed before now.’

‘And by it, you mean me?’

His mother shrugged. Knowing the iron control he’d locked down on his feelings where his parents were concerned was in danger of breaking free and exploding, he jerked to his feet. Crossing the room to his father, he held out his hand for the tablet.

Benito handed it over.

Seeing his brother’s face frozen on the screen, the bandage around his head and the stark hospital furniture and machines around him, Emiliano felt his breath strangle in his chest. Matias was the one person who hadn’t dismissed him for being born second. His brother’s support was the primary reason Emiliano had broken away from the glaringly apathetic environment into which he’d been born. He knew deep down that he would’ve made it, no matter what, but Matias’s unwavering encouragement had bolstered him in the early, daunting years when he’d been floundering alone on the other side of the world.

He stemmed the tremor moving through him as his gaze moved over his brother’s pale, gaunt face. Returning to his seat, he pressed the play button.

The message was ten minutes long.

With each second of footage that passed, with each word his brother uttered, Emiliano sank further into shock and disbelief. When it was over, he lifted his gaze and met equal stares that were now less indifferent and more...concerned.

‘Are you... Is this for real?’ he demanded.

‘You’re hearing the words from your brother’s lips and still you doubt it?’ his father asked, a trace of shame lacing his stiff demeanour.

‘I don’t doubt what Matias is saying. I’m questioning whether you truly gambled away millions that you knew the company couldn’t afford!’

His father slammed his hand on the table. ‘Castillo is my company!’

‘It’s also Matias’s birthright! At least, that’s what you drummed into him from the day he was born, was it not? Wasn’t that the reason he all but broke his back to make it a success? Because you pressured him to succeed at all costs?’

‘I am no tyrant. What he did for Castillo, he did willingly.’

Emiliano barely managed to bite back the swear word that hovered on his tongue. ‘And for that you repay him by frittering away the profits behind his back?’

‘The deal we made with Cabrera was supposed to be a sure thing.’

‘A sure thing? You were duped by a man who spotted an easy score a mile away.’ He stared down at the screen, still unable to believe the tale Matias had told. Bankruptcy. Destitution for his parents. Absurd promises made. Regret that the burden now fell on Emiliano’s shoulders.

The naked plea in his brother’s eyes and solemn tone not to let the family down.

That last entreaty, more than anything else, was what kept Emiliano from walking out the door in that moment. Even though what Matias was asking of him—the request to honour the deal his parents had struck with Rodrigo Cabrera—was so ludicrous, he wondered why he wasn’t laughing his head off.

Because every single word was true. He could tell just from looking into his parents’ eyes.

‘You really are serious, aren’t you? You struck this bargain that Matias would marry Cabrera’s daughter if the deal went south and the loans became due?’ he rasped with renewed disbelief. ‘Isn’t she still a child?’

A brief memory of a little girl in pigtails chasing around the ranch during family visits flitted through his mind. Matias, as usual, had been patient and caring with Graciela Cabrera, but Emiliano, fully immersed in dreams of escape, could barely remember her, save for a few exchanges at the dinner table.

‘She’s twenty-three years old,’ his mother supplied. ‘She may have had a few wild escapades that have left her parents with more grey hairs than they wish, but she is more mature now. Matias was her favourite, of course, but she remembers you fondly—’

‘I don’t care how she remembers me. What I care about is that none of this set-up rang any alarm bells for you!’ He seethed, unwilling to rise to the subtle dig. ‘From a supposed family friend!’