Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

the contract I signed years ago, just before my grandfather’s passing, giving
me access to a multimillion-dollar trust fund the old bastard had set up in my
name.
He’d already signed over ownership rights to a half dozen businesses on
Aplana, as well as stocks and shareholdings in a variety of different
companies, but I suppose he never quit trying to atone for only finding out
about me when it was too late to save my soul.
One stipulation for the trust was that I had to be at least twenty-five
before the funds became available to me. And I had to be clean, which meant
extracting myself from the life of crime I’d fallen into.
A much more difficult feat than outsiders seem to realize.
Once you’re part of the mafia, that’s it. They don’t let their people go
without a fight; frankly, when I let Rafe know months ago about me wanting
to step down, I’d expected more resistance than I got.
I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop with that one.
Another condition was that I had to be married, and it had to be
legitimate.
Of course, having amassed my own wealth over the years, I had no
interest in bowing to the terms just for my paternal grandfather’s guilt money.
But then, I tried reconnecting with my sister; her and our two brothers
had been strategically left out of the will, the inheritance, and the trust fund.
In fact, they were never even supposed to see a penny from it, which is
why I’d been writing Violet’s checks from my own savings, intending to
transfer the trust money into an offshore account and leave the personal bank
information with her.
But she kept rejecting my checks, and as the expiration date to access the
trust funds drew nearer, I knew drastic measures needed to be taken.
I knew Miles, my grandfather’s estate attorney, would eventually come
by for the proof. I just had put it on the back burner recently, with all the
other things going on in my life taking precedence.
“No one would use a football term to describe meddling,” I say, brushing
crumbs from my desk into a trash can, and taking the contract from him. I flip
through the neatly printed pages, noting the scribble of my signature and the
neat cursive of my grandfather’s at the bottom of each page.
“In any case, your expiration date is pretty soon. How are you planning
on proving to Miles that you’re serious about Elena?”
Tapping my finger on the page above the marriage clause, I exhale.