Chapter three
age twenty-six
In elementary school, we used to play this game. One person would whisper something in another person’s ear, and it would continue down the line. Each person whispered in the next person’s ear. The person at the end of the line would say what they heard out loud, and every fucking time it was completely different from what the original person had said.
That was exactly why I didn’t believe in messengers.
If I needed to send a message, I sent it myself. Nothing got lost in translation that way. Nothing got fucked up.
Which was why instead of having a peaceful meal at Grammercy Tavern, I was standing outside one of those metal portable trailers situated behind a chain-link fence. The afternoon sun warmed my face. Steel beams rose up from the ground in the beginning stages of a brand-new New York high rise. The lifts and scaffolds were empty due to everyone heading home for the day. A white sign with blue writing hung on the outside of the makeshift office.Miller and Sons.It was quiet. Peaceful, except for the sound of my ringtone echoing from my pocket. I didn’t even pull it out. Whoever it was could wait.
I took a deep breath and mentally prepared for what I was about to do, a necessary evil I’d grown numb to over the years. The steel barrel of my gun pressed against my back, leaving a firm, cool impression against my skin. When I wasn’t at home, I kept it tucked into the waistband of my pants. Always. No exceptions.
Leo, my right-hand man and one of two people I trusted in this world, walked into the office while I followed behind. He preferred computer hacking and working numbers, but once in a while, I brought him with me in the field. I told him it kept him grounded. He told me it kept him awake at night.
Asshole.
Carl Miller sat behind his desk, folding a large sheet of paper—most likely construction plans—into quarters. His eyes widened like saucers the second we walked in.
Why did construction offices always smell like dried mud and day-old coffee?
I closed the door behind me. “Hello, Carl.”
He set the paper on his desk, not bothering to finish folding it. “Mr. Carmichael. I can explain—”
I took five steps, then stopped in front of his desk. “How about we skip the excuses and fast forward to the part where you hand over my money?”
The gambling ring I started in high school snowballed over the years and ended up making me New York’s—or possibly the entire East Coast’s—most popular bookie. That popularity led me to some powerful people. Those powerful people welcomed me into their circle. That circle expanded from gambling, to weapons dealing, to owning one of the most elite gentleman’s clubs in the nation. At twenty-six years old, I was the king of New York’s underworld. Motherfucking Hades in a three-piece suit.
Every once in a while, someone came along who got trigger happy on the lines. There was always some asshole who bit off more than he could chew. Usually it was the newbies. All it took was one visit from me to set them straight. I rarely had to go back twice.
Carl owed me four thousand dollars. That was a drop in the hat compared to some, but a lesson was a lesson and I never passed up on the opportunity to teach.
“My son—”
I cut him off. Funny how motherfuckers always headed straight for their kids when they needed to talk their way out of something.“No excuses, Carl. Remember?”Fear seeped from his pores in beads of sweat as I walked around and leaned my hip against the side of his desk. My phone rang again. I ignored it… again. “You like working with your hands?” My gaze moved from his round, bearded face to his plump, sausage fingers.
He flexed and unflexed his hands.
Leo crossed the room, stopping beside me, and handed me a knife. The blade had been recently sharpened and the stag antler handle polished. It almost made me sad to use it.
“Mr. Carmichael, please…” His lip trembled as his words broke off.
That name always made me cringe. Mr. Carmichael was my father. I was simply Chandler.
“People always underestimate the power of hands.” I cocked my head and studied him. “Don’t you think?”
He nodded, speechless.
Just as I grabbed his wrist, held his hand down against the wood surface of the desk, and jabbed the knife right through the top, piercing flesh and bone, my phone rang again.
Carl let out a gut-wrenching howl as tears spilled over his cheeks.
“Fuck!” I pulled the phone from my pocket and answered with clenched teeth. “What the fuck is so goddamn important?”
Grey’s voice crossed the line, smooth and calm—the exact opposite of mine right now. “I’ve got her.”
Shit.
Carl sobbed. His face was covered in snot and tears, and blood pooled underneath his hand all over the desk.
“And?” I replied, annoyed with Grey’s timing.
“Duck, duck, goose, asshole. You’re it. I’m bringing her to you.”
Well, fuck.
I ended the call without a goodbye, stuffed the phone back in my pocket, and grinned at Carl. “It looks like today is your lucky day. Something more important just came up.” I grabbed a cotton handkerchief from inside my suit jacket and tossed it on his desk for him to wipe the blood. “I’ll even let you keep the knife.”