CHAPTER1
HUNTER
“Inever thought I’d see that fucking face again,” I say as I stare at the bloodied, bruised mug of the asshole who completely screwed me over about a year ago. Snarling, I shake my head and rub my hand along my jaw, the shadow bristling against my palm fitting for a day like this.
“I thought you’d be happy to see him.” Waylon Nyx lets a low, rumbling chuckle echo off the concrete walls of the dingy room in the basement of his recording studios. The small box of a room is windowless, dark, and full of dread. The cracks in the walls splinter out like fingers trying to escape what is essentially a blood-tinged cell, a room with a vague odor that hints of lingering death. Most people would never think a dismal place like this could exist in such a chic, expensive building in the trendy part of town. But I know better. All of the bleaker aspects of the city reveal themselves to a guy like me, someone who is well-versed in dealing with the underbelly of society.
More than anyone else in Los Angeles, I understand that every building holds a host of secrets, ghosts that linger in the dark corners like the place my old associate finds himself in now, tied to a metal chair, his face bleeding from numerous gashes.
Unfortunately, not a single drop of his blood has been spilled by me. Yet.
Taking a deep breath, I fold my arms across my chest and weigh the situation, thumbing over the face of my Grim Reaper tattoo. I hadn’t wanted to come here to begin with. Mr. Nyx is a pain in my ass like no one else—and I have several deeply rooted thorns in my backside these days. Even the site of his studio, where plenty of famous recording artists come to create the music he releases into the world, making millions off other people’s talents, makes me angry. I only come here when I can’t avoid it, and something about the tone Mr. Nyx used when he contacted me earlier told me this was one of those times.
Dragging my hand down my face, I say the words I know the man in the three-piece suit wants to hear. “I’m listening.”
This time, his chuckle grates on my nerves like the whine of a dentist’s drill, and I have to shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans to keep from making Mr. Nyx’s face look a little more like Jonathan’s. Bloodied. Battered.
Through slitted eyes, the man I once trusted with everything glares at me, his swollen jaw unmoving. He knows better than to even try to sway me to spare him. Even if he hadn’t stolen from me, I’d make him pay just for stabbing me in the back. He’s been a witness to many of my other business transactions and is probably mentally counting the seconds he has left alive.
“It’s pretty simple, Hunter,” Mr. Nyx says as five fat fingers slam down on my shoulder. He has to strain to reach that high. I tower over him—at six-four, I’m nearly a foot taller than this man with the “simple” business proposal.
“Go on,” I prompt as I see him mulling over the situation in his mind.
“You’ve got something I want, something I’ve been trying to bargain with you for so long, I can’t even remember the first time I made my request.” I close my eyes for a second, trying not to groan. Are we really talking about this again? “Now I’ve finally got something you want.” He chuckles again and pats my shoulder until I move away.
Turning to face him and shaking my head, it’s my turn to laugh. I ask, “Are we seriously back to that? You know I have no intention of selling Silver Towers.” The apartment complex is one I’d gone to great lengths to acquire. It is in a part of town I knew was going to blow up soon, and I’d gotten it for a steal. Now it’s worth far more than any amount of money someone like Mr. Nyx could offer me. He’s rich, but not that rich.
But he’d made plenty of offers over the last year. Every time, I told him exactly where he could go. There are other apartment buildings nearby, ones that aren’t as nice as Silver Towers, ones that don’t cost as much. He could buy one of them and fix it up. Sure, he wouldn’t be able to sell it or rent out the units for the same amount as I’m getting now that the area has taken off, but Mr. Nyx is an intelligent, cunning man. Surely, he could find a way to make one of those other properties into something trendy.
“We are back to that again.” He’s done laughing now. He runs a hand down his black tie, attempting to smooth out his white button-down over his paunch. “Listen, I know you’ve been looking for Mr. Williams here for a while. I found him for you.” He shrugs like I should thank him or shake his hand. The guy’s got balls to take that sort of approach with me. “Now, you take your friend away from here safe and sound, and I get Silver. Otherwise…” He makes a small facial gesture, pulling one corner of his mouth up as he looks over his shoulder at his two thugs who are leaning against the wall…next to a couple of my own guys who are prepared to do whatever is necessary in the blink of an eye.
At the moment though, I believe Mr. Nyx may have a point. I have been looking for my former friend for quite some time, and now here he is.
Not that I would give a flying fuck if Nyx pulled a gun out of his waistband right now and blew Jonathan’s head off.
But then… I would still be left without answers, and the one man who can give them to me would have his brain matter mixing with the mildew on the concrete wall behind him.
Not to mention, I want to be the one to pull the trigger if it comes to that.
“You want to give me Jonathan in exchange for Silver Towers?” I clarify.
He nods. “I got the contract all drawn up. Just need your signature.” That smirk from before grows wider, morphing into a full-fledged smile.
I want to crock back my fist and knock the grin right off his fat face.
But I don’t. As much as I don’t want to give up Silver Towers, theoretically, getting the information I need from Jonathan would be worth even more. Besides, unlike Waylon Nyx, I do have the skills and assets to buy another nearby apartment complex and turn it into something that will draw in high-end clients who will pay tens of thousands a month to live there.
His beady eyes are boring into me, and I think he’s holding his breath as he awaits my answer. I suppose he didn’t notice the absolute terror that crossed Jonathan’s face the moment he saw me. Nyx honestly seems to think I am trying to save Jonathan’s life—rather than just wanting to be the one who takes it should things not go as planned. Jonathan knows me better than Nyx; he knows that crossing me is signing his own fucking death certificate.
Without a word, I give a sharp nod, and the chuckling is back as Mr. Nyx gestures for muscled moron number one to hand him the contract and a pen.
I know better than to sign anything without reading it, but this is a pretty simple document. I don’t need my lawyer, Leah, to tell me I’m essentially signing over Silver Towers to Mr. Waylon Nyx in exchange for what would legally appear to be nothing. He at least put the sales amount on there.
One dollar.
When I’m satisfied he’s not extorting anything else from me, I step over to the barren gray wall and slap the paper against it, hastily scrawling my name in the correct place.
“Very good, very good!” Mr. Nyx says as he rubs his hands together. I thrust the paperwork and pen at him, imagining what he would look like with the writing utensil jutting out of his eye socket. He hands me a single George Washington, which I want to throw in his face but shove into my pocket instead.