Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I pause just inside the private entrance and let my eyes adjust to the low light. The room is ridiculously lavish—velvet booths along the walls, crystal glasses flashing under chandeliers, men in suits leaning too close to each other over thousand-dollar bourbon.
A jazz singer stands near the stage dressed in gold silk, her voice smooth and low. No one is really listening.
People don’t come here for the music.
I step farther inside.
The shift in the room is subtle. It always is. Conversations soften. A few heads turn. A server adjusts the tray in his hand and turns away.
The Vexley name does that.
I button my jacket and scan the room.
My father’s command echoes in my mind.
Handle the Darnell situation tonight.
Preston Darnell isn’t hard to find. He’s at a curved velvet booth toward the back of the club. Two younger men sit with him, looking eager. Of course they are. They think being in Darnell’s orbit will elevate them.
Darnell has a whiskey in his hand and a smile on his face.
He won’t be smiling when I’m finished.
I move through the room, nodding to some acquaintances, raising an eyebrow at others.
People step aside without realizing they’re doing it. Chairs scrape softly. Someone stops laughing mid-sentence when they notice where I’m headed.
One of the men beside Darnell sees me first. The color drains from his face. He murmurs something.
Darnell turns. For half a second his smile stays where it is. Then it tightens.
“Vexley,” he says.
I stop beside the booth. “Darnell.”
The two men at the table go quiet.
Darnell leans back slightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“I doubt that.”
He takes a drink. “You could’ve called.”
“You forget my family owns this club.” I remain standing.
The men beside him are watching me, their expressions a bit shifty.
Darnell sets down his glass. “If this is about a few property purchases, I think you might be overreacting. Manhattan’s a big island.”
“It is,” I say. “Which makes it impressive that you still managed to wander somewhere you don’t belong.”
His jaw tightens. “I bought legal parcels.”
“You bought Vexley parcels.”
His smile comes back, thinner this time. “Your father doesn’t own the city.”
I narrow my eyes. “My father isn’t here.”
A server appears beside me. “Mr. Vexley, can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.”
He nods and disappears.
I look back at Darnell. “You’ve lost two lenders in the last ten days. One in Midtown. One in Boston. Your permit review stalled this morning. The partnership you were counting on for the West Side property is reconsidering whether your name is worth the trouble.”
He tightens his fingers around the glass, his knuckles whitening. For a moment, I wonder if the glass will shatter.
Doubtful. Darnell isn’t that strong.
“You’ve been busy,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “I haven’t.”
Darnell laughs, but it’s strained. “You know what your problem is?”
I lean back. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
He crosses his arms. “You think fear makes you untouchable.”
I tilt my head slightly. “You remember a warehouse fire in Red Hook six years ago?”
His pallor changes. I can almost see the blood draining out of his face. I never tire of it. Watching people when something buried and unpleasant claws its way into the light.
“It never made the papers,” I continue. “Strange, considering the insurance discrepancies. The labor violations. The records that vanished afterward.”
Darnell doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need to.
“You made a mistake,” I say quietly. “You assumed the Vexleys were the only danger in your past.”
He swallows. “You don’t get to tell me where I can do business.”
“I think I just did.” I let the words settle, and then I step back. “Sell what you bought. Walk away from everything north of Canal. Keep your mouth shut about tonight and maybe the rest of your life stays comfortable.”
He says nothing.
That’s good enough for me. For now, at least. I turn away from the booth and start toward the exit.
Halfway across the room, I react to something. It’s not obvious, just a quiet chill that skitters across the back of my neck.
Something I never fail to ignore.
I look toward the bar.
A woman sits alone beneath a wall of backlit bottles. She isn’t looking directly at me. She’s watching the mirror behind the liquor shelves.
When I stop, her gaze shifts from the mirror to my face.
I expect her to look away. Most people do when they encounter Samson Vexley.
She doesn’t.
Interesting.
I watch her for a moment.
She’s beautiful, though not in the loud, polished way of most of the women here. No evidence of Botox or fillers, and her hair is a natural color. Dark chestnut—not a purple highlight in sight—and it falls past her shoulders in smooth waves. She wears a basic black dress with a neckline high enough not to show any cleavage…and damn, I’d like to see some. She looks pretty stacked.
When she lifts her glass, the light catches something at her throat.