MICHAEL SULLIVAN: NEW DYNASTY

— 2 —

The official invitation arrived the next morning, nestled among bills and junk mail like a gold coin in a gutter.

“Mr. Michael Sullivan,” it read in elegant script. “Your presence is requested at Medici Manor on Friday, May 21st at 7:00 PM for a family gathering of significant importance. Formal attire required. RSVP to the enclosed number.”

No mention of Frank's illness. No explanation for why, after years of silence, he was suddenly being included in “family” matters. Just a summons, as if he were a servant being called to attend his master.

Michael placed the invitation on his small kitchen table and stared at it while he ate a bowl of cereal that had already gotten soggy. His phone buzzed with a text from Alexis: “Anything yet?”

Michael snapped a photo of the invitation and sent it to him. Alexis reply came almost immediately.

“I knew it,” Alexis texted in capital letters. “The rumors are true. Frank Medici is dying, and he's gathering his children.”

“I'm not his child,” Michael said automatically. “Not in any way that matters. And there's no proof that he's actually dying.”

“You share his DNA,” Alexis replied. “And now he wants to see you. The question is why."

Michael pushed away his cereal bowl. “Maybe he wants to clear his conscience before he dies. Too little, too late.”

“Or maybe,” Alexis texted, “this is about the inheritance.”

“Inheritance?” Michael barked out a sarcastic laugh. “Right. I'm sure Frank Medici is planning to leave his illegitimate son a piece of his multi-billion-dollar empire. That's definitely happening.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Alexis said. “The rich and powerful often make surprising decisions when faced with death, I guess.”

“This isn't a movie,” Michael cut in. “It’s real life.”

Alexis was quiet for a moment. Then his text came again: “You're going, though, aren't you?”

Michael looked at the invitation again. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I'm going.”

After hanging up, Michael checked the time. He had to leave for his afternoon shift at the coffee shop in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to decide how to respond to the invitation that could probably change his life. He picked up his phone and dialed the RSVP number. A crisp, professional voice answered on the second ring.

“Medici residence.”

“This is Michael Sullivan,” he said, surprised at how steady his voice sounded. “I'm calling about the invitation to Friday's gathering.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Sullivan,” the voice replied with a hint of surprise. “Shall we expect you?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “I'll be there.”

“Very good, sir. The gate code for that evening will be 1627. Do you require transportation?”

The question caught Michael off guard. His only vehicle was his bicycle, and the thought of pedaling up to the Medici mansion in formal attire was laughable.

“I'll find my way there,” he said stiffly.

“As you wish. Good day, Mr. Sullivan.”

Michael ended the call and leaned back in his chair, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour. What was he getting himself into? And how would he afford formal attire on his coffee shop wages?

—

The rest of the week passed in a blur of anxiety and preparation. Michael withdrew as much as he could from his meager savings to rent a suit. He spent hours online researching the family, reading everything he could find about Frank Medici's business empire and his legitimate family.

Phillip, the eldest at 35, ran the European division of Medici Enterprises. He'd been making achievements and breaking records since his earl twenties. And his latest trophy was Hillary, Michael’s ex. Michael sighed as he moved down the list. The next was Victoria Medici, the second legitimate child of the Medici family. She was a celebrated surgeon with enough resources to topple an empire. No one messed with her and got out alive; she'd put countlessly men in jail. Maxwell Medici, 29, had married Victoria and taken up the Medici name. He lived to please Victoria. He also had a military background and now handled security for the family business. But he was a party boy and kept lavishing money on expensive cruises and creating occasional scandals.

Octavian Medici, 30, was the third sibling. He was a teacher at a college and seemed pretty normal compared to the rest of his siblings.

Mei and Feng Zhou Medici, the adopted twins, were notorious social media icons with no real jobs but plenty of connections. Elizabeth, 23, was the youngest legitimate child. She managed the family's extensive art collection.

The more Michael learned, the more out of place he felt. These people were so out of his league. What could they possibly want with him now?

By Friday evening, Michael's nerves were wound so tight he could barely knot his tie. Looking in the mirror, he hardly recognized himself in the fitted black suit. For a brief moment, he imagined what it'd be like to be rich and wear expensive clothes.

A knock at his door startled him. He wasn't expecting anyone, and his neighbors rarely visited. Cautiously, he opened the door to find a tall man in a chauffeur's uniform standing in the hallway.

“Mr. Sullivan? I'm here to take you to Medici Manor.”

“I didn't request a car,” Michael said, confused.

The chauffeur's expression remained blank. “Mr. Medici arranged it, sir. He was quite insistent."

“Frank Medici?” Michael blinked in surprise. What the hell was going on?

“No, sir. Not Master Frank. It was Sir Octavian. The car is waiting whenever you're ready."

Michael hesitated, then grabbed his phone and wallet. There was no sense in refusing the ride; it would certainly be better than showing up in an Uber or, worse, on his bicycle. But why in the world did Octavian Medici send him a ride?

The car was a sleek black town car with tinted windows, the kind Michael had only seen in movies. As the chauffeur held the door open for him, Michael felt a sudden urge to run back to his apartment and lock the door. This world of luxury cars and mansion wasn't his. But he got into the car anyway. Whatever game the Medicis were playing, he deserved to know the rules.

The drive to Medici Manor took only fifteen minutes. But to Michael, it felt like crossing into another country. When they finally turned into the long driveway of the Medici estate, Michael's mouth went dry. He'd seen the mansion many times during his deliveries, but always from a distance. Now he was about to enter.

The chauffeur opened his door, and Michael stepped out into the cool evening air. Other cars were arriving. A few people glanced curiously in his direction, but most ignored him.

Michael took a deep breath and straightened his spine. He might not belong here, but he wasn't going to cower. He was Michelle Sullivan's son, and she had raised him to hold his head high no matter what.

With that thought firmly in mind, he walked up the marble steps to the massive front door of Medici Manor, where a butler waited to usher him into a world he'd never been allowed to enter—until now.