Kellen
The meeting takes place at a quiet gentlemen’s club at the heart of the bustling business district. It’s not the sort of gentlemen’s club I’m used to, since that phrase isn’t a euphemism here—jackets are required, it smells like old smoke and spilled whiskey, and while women are admitted, they are allowed only in the company of a man and only if they stick to the dress code.
“What the hell is this place?” Tara whispers as a haughty maître d’ leads us down a quiet hallway lined with doors. The carpet is thick and dark green, and the walls are wood-paneled and covered in oil paintings of the Southwest: stunning desert vistas, lots of cattle ranches, and gorgeous pink-and-blue sunsets with cotton candy clouds.
“It’s an old boy’s club,” I whisper back. “Think cigars and brandy. The sort of place where they discuss how to make each other even richer. Fireplaces in every room even though it’s the fucking desert. Expensive and exclusive.”
“Are you a member?”
“Fuck no, I’d never be caught dead in a place like this.” I scowl at the back of the maître d’ and shake my head. “But the men that sit on my board love it here. This is where the power really lies in this city.”
“Naturally, women are grudgingly admitted.”
“Another reason I’d never show up here unless I had to. What’s the fucking point of hanging around with a bunch of old stuffy assholes without beautiful women?”
“I’m a beautiful woman now?”
“Damn right you are.” I squeeze her ass and wink. “Especially in that dress. Now stop fishing for compliments.”
She blushes and goes quiet as the maître d’ gives us a dirty look over his shoulder and literally stares down his long, hooked nose.
Tara does look gorgeous though. Short black dress, lovely earrings and a necklace, her makeup simple and tasteful, her hair down around her shoulders. She looks like she belongs in a magazine and I can barely keep my eyes off her.
We’re left outside of one of many rooms. I knock, wait a moment, then we enter. It’s like walking into a private sitting room: large, comfortable couches, a table toward the back, a small bar with a bartender silently wiping glasses, and a fireplace crackling away.
Two men are sitting in easy chairs near the fire. They stand as we approach. The closest is Bob Ramon, a dark-skinned man with sharp eyes and a crooked smile. The other is Gotthard Thornton, tall and pale and severe. Both are in million-dollar suits and they shake my hand like they want to try to crush my bones.
I smile and play along. These men are used to making deals in a certain style. Stuffy, aristocratic, overly formal. I know the game thoroughly, even if I despise it.
“Good to see you, gentlemen,” I say, meeting their eyes one after the other. I motion to the bartender for drinks. “Whiskey neat for me. Wine for the lady.”
Tara smiles at the board members. “Good to meet you both.”
“Lovely to meet you as well,” Bob says. He’s a hedge fund asshole, the public face of a very rich private investment firm called Primrose Capital. He bought a ton of shares in Hayle Construction years back and forced his way onto the board, much to my father’s chagrin. I watched that drama play out from a distance. I liked Bob back then because he was lifting a big, thick middle finger to my old man, but now I see he’s just another slimy money guy with a fake smile and slicked-back hair.
Gotthard’s another matter. He’s the face of Deutsche Bank, a massive German investment bank with fingers in every pocket and more scaly arms wrapped around the world than a kraken. He frowns at me, looking dour as always, and we sit down on the couch, the men returning to their chairs. The bartender brings over the drinks and retreats to his spot where he’ll quietly polish glasses, pretend he’s not eavesdropping, and inevitably sell our secrets to the highest bidder unless we tip him a massive bribe first.
It’s a stupid system and I don’t know why these idiots put up with it. Probably because they all think they’re the ones getting exclusive information when I’m positive these bartenders tell everyone the same bullshit drivel and walk off with huge cartloads of cash.
“Thank you for coming to see us on such short notice,” Bob says, swirling his glass. Ice clinks against the sides. “I know things have been difficult lately.”
“That is a mild understatement,” Gotthard says. “Things have been violent and unstable, and I do not like violence, and I despise instability most of all.”
“What my German friend here means is why the fuck are you waging a shadow war with Hugh? He’s your own damn cousin, Kellen.”
I smile at them and keep myself composed. Despite their apparently opposing demeanors, these men are longtime allies and they have one single goal: make Hayle Construction profitable and keep it that way. So long as Hayle is making money and its share prices increase, they’re content.
But I’m guessing this drama with Hugh threatens their bottom line and now they’re finally forced to pay attention to it. They must be worried that my aggressive takeover of the Hayle family, and my inevitable bid for power of the company itself, won’t look good to outside money and their precious share price might drop. The fucking cowards.
“There is no war,” I say, tilting my head slightly and shrugging. “My father died, so I came home to claim my place as the head of the family. Cousin Hugh was merely acting as a steward for me, but now he thinks he’s the real power, and I’m busy showing him otherwise. In the meantime, I married my long-time sweetheart, Tara.”
“Congratulations,” Gotthard says flatly.
“Thank you. But the problem is, Hugh believes he’s the rightful ruler of Hayle, and in a lot of ways, he’s right. He’s the CEO of the public face of our family and for a long time, he was the de facto head of the private business.”
“Private business.” Bob scowls and shakes his head. “We know what you people do, Kellen. No reason to skirt around it.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” I give him a sharp smile. I can’t outright say we’re mafia—not even to these guys. They’re not in the family, which means there are certain rules in play. Anyone can be flipped and turned informant, which means I have to be exceedingly careful. No guarantee the feds aren’t listening right now.