Page 22 of Loyalty

Andino meant no harm, though, and he was always down to help John. Or, keep him out of trouble, even. The two had been that way—ride or die—since they were kids.

“Anyway,” John said, waving the moving guys in from the doorway, “now the money manager keeps me on track with everything regarding my trust fund from my biological grandfather. He earns me money, and gives me some to spend. I’m still working with a ten-thousand-dollar stipend every month, plus whatever I make working. He doesn’t get that, you know.”

“Yeah, it’s not clean money, right? Wouldn’t want somebody looking too deep in to how you made it, never mind the government getting easy access to documents that showed no taxes paid on it.”

“Exactly.”

John turned his back to the guys bringing the furniture and boxes in. Some had been in storage while he was in prison, and other things were brand new. Shit he had purchased over the last couple of weeks while he looked for a place.

“You said mostly, though,” Andino pointed out.

“Huh?”

Adriano tipped his head to the side. “When I asked if it was by choice about the money manager, you said mostly.”

“I recognized I had an issue that needed handling.”

“But?”

“Dad threatened to file legal action against me if I didn’t do it willingly,” John admitted.

Andino flinched. “Ouch.”

“Is what it is. So far, my disorder has never been brought into the public record. I don’t want people in this life to know that I am bipolar.”

“Like a target someone might see and use against you, huh?”

“Essentially. We’re all fine and good pretending mafiosi are honorable made men, but the truth is a hell of a lot simpler, Andi.”

Andino nodded. “We see a perceived weakness, and we exploit it.”

“Yeah. Dad knows that, and if it gets him what he wants, he doesn’t mind using the idea that my disorder will somehow get into a public record on me to make me do what he needs me to do. Filing legal action against me to take control of my assets or whatever else due to my failing to take care of it myself would absolutely do that.”

“John, you know Lucian is only looking out for—”

“I know why,” John interjected sharply. “That doesn’t make it right.”

Andino shoved his hands deep in his pockets again. “Point taken.”

It was another reason why John held bitterness toward his father, sure, even if a part of him understood it had been for the best. The thing about Lucian Marcello and his only son was that a lot of the time, John was left feeling like his father was stripping the control of his life away from him.

Slowly.

One by one.

A thing at a time.

Or maybe his father didn’t want to do that at all, and that was just John’s misfiring emotions and brain working against each other again. Who fucking knew?

It didn’t take long for the movers to get all the furniture and boxes inside the house. John simply directed them to drop everything in the middle of the large living room. He was so particular about his things and how it all needed to be placed that someone else doing it could send him into some kind of fit.

Anxiety.

Anger.

Sometimes both.

Sure, his meds helped a lot to keep him settled and allowed him a bit more breathing room to think before he spoke or reacted, but it wasn’t a whole lot of space. Mostly just enough for him to recognize he might be making a bigger deal out of something than it actually was.