“Then you haven’t seen the way Miss Liberty Potter hates me,” I snap—then shut my mouth firmly when Alaska raises a thick, bushy eyebrow.
“Liberty Potter, you say?” His grin peeks past his dense mountain man beard.
Ah, fuck.
I think I just gave myself away.
Grunting, I turn away from the rather annoyed-looking Carmine and bump Alaska’s thick arm again. “C’mon. We’ve still got four more rooms to inspect.”
But he’s not about to drop it.
He’s the type that seems big, dumb, and loyal, but underneath it he’s sharp as a tack and far too shrewd.
“So that’s what happened,” he says, stroking his beard with a thoughtful rumble as he falls into step with me. “You went and got yourself collared by a girl who can’t stand you, and now you can’t stand to look at anyone else.”
“Cut the shit,” I growl. “There’s no point.”
Not when Libby won’t trust me in this lifetime and maybe several more.
Not when my name’s clearly so vile she has every reason to believe I’m just trying to swindle her, jumping to conclusions without giving me any hint of a chance.
It’s almost like she knew me back in New York.
Back when I was that guy.
A man I’m not proud of.
A man who had to lose everything he had to learn that, deep down, he had nothing worth keeping to start with.
* * *
Two Years Ago
When Calypso told me to meet her at Le Bernardin, I thought we were just having a celebratory dinner.
I’m about to close on a big development deal that’ll value close to eight figures for the contract, with seven figures in profits.
A whole fuck-wad of zeroes that’ll look mighty pretty in my bank account.
Just as pretty as the ring I bought will look on her finger.
It’s the perfect setup.
Meeting my girl at one of the most exclusive, upscale restaurants in NYC, and it was her idea, so she has no clue I’m about to propose.
I’m finally ready.
Ready to settle down and let go of my hundred-woman ways.
Ready to stop playing games and find something stable.
Ready to make a life.
A real life with permanence.
It’s all going according to plan, too.
Until I check in for our reservation and I’m escorted to the table.
Calypso’s already waiting.
Settled into a booth and snuggled in close…
…next to another man.
And not just any other man.
Barry Hensworth.
If there was a Who’s Who of New York Construction, Barry would be on the first page, and every other page. His family’s been a bastion of New York real estate for nearly a century—and just like mob families, they’re all about power, control, and who sets the rules.
They like the cushy contracts going to their guys.
You’ve got to play smart, play fast, to get around them and find your own niche. Make your own way.
I thought I’d played smart and fast.
Thought I’d found investors who’d take a chance on a hungry small-town boy gunning to upset the Hensworth iron fist in this city.
But the fact that my girl—my fucking girl—is hanging on Barry’s arm?
It tells me without even saying a word that I didn’t play fast or smart enough.
There are three place settings. Two in front of them, one in front of the empty side of the booth.
They want to play this nice. Congenial. Mafia-style.
Fine.
I’ll play along.
At least give them the satisfaction of letting me down easy.
So I plaster on my most charming, easygoing smile and offer my hand, wishing I had my gun.
“Barry,” I say, as if we’re friends and not bitter rivals. As if we could even be called rivals, when he’s got enough of a stranglehold to crush me at any moment. “Calypso didn’t tell me you were coming to dinner.”
Barry looks up.
He smiles his greasy goddamn smile like he isn’t about to stab me in the back.
Like my girlfriend isn’t on his arm and watching me with a smirk that says she knew this was coming.
She maybe even knew when she was in my bed last week.
“Holt,” Barry says ever so warmly, taking my hand in a firm shake before gesturing to the empty chair. “Have a seat. They’ve already served the wine. It’s a 1990 Chateau Margaux. I’ve heard it’s quite pleasing to the palate.”
Please, sit, he tells me.
Like this is his fucking rodeo.
Making sure I know who’s in control here, rubbing his dick in my face.
Starting with a $1200 bottle of wine.
But I sit and play nice.
Though I’m already eager to throw that glimmering thin-stemmed glass of wine right in Barry’s jowly, red, smug-fuck face.
“How lovely,” I say, keeping up the illusion, even though everything in my body is sinking like a stone, because I know.
I know I’m about to lose everything.
And it leaves my gut as heavy as the rock in my pocket, fixed to a ring that costs more than most people’s mortgages.
“So,” I continue, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”