The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

  “She does, but not like this home. My grandfather built it for her when they married. My father and uncle grew up there. She’s quite sentimental about it.”

  “No doubt the money from the sale will soothe any sentimental attachment. The property value must have tripled since it was built.”

  She frowned. To Clay, everything was about money. But this was more than dollars and cents. She had to make him understand, to see that life was more than a balance sheet.

  Shifting in the water, she angled to see his face. “She wouldn’t sell it for a king’s ransom, if she had her way. She misses my grandfather and the house reminds her of him daily. Also, she has promised to give the house to me when she passes on.”

  “To you?”

  “It sounds silly, but I’ve loved that house since I was a child. I spent more time there than my sisters and it became a refuge for me.” A place far away from her father’s disappointment and her mother’s expectations. “I don’t know what I would have done without Granny and that big, rambling house.”

  He said nothing for a moment, then took her shoulders and settled her back against his chest. His arms wound around her, holding her tight. “Won’t you marry and find a home with your husband?”

  “God, no. I’d rather have my own business than a husband. And if I’m living in my grandmother’s house, I can use my trust fund for the casino’s operating expenses.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “No one does. But Granny’s house is critical to my future plans. If she sells it then I will probably end up living atop my casino and becoming a surly recluse.”

  He grunted at the dig, his burst of air bouncing her on his chest. They sat in easy silence for a few seconds. Water lapped against the side of the tub, the steam curling toward the ceiling. She figured now was as good a time as any to ask the one question standing between them.

  “Will you ever tell me the reason why you hate my father?”

  “No.”

  Well, that response left no opening whatsoever. “He’s not a bad man. A little intimidating at times but he isn’t cruel.”

  “You’ll never change my mind about him.”

  “Even if I regale you with stories about his support and love as a father? The various charities to which he donates? The time he saved a kitten and brought it home for my sisters and me?”

  “None of that will affect the way I feel about Duncan Greene.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Clay,” she said, her voice rising in frustration. “You are deliberately—”

  In one smooth motion, he lifted and twisted her until her thighs straddled his hips. He bent his head and took the tip of her breast into his mouth, and fire swept through her veins. Each suck and swirl on the taut skin caused her core to contract in the most delicious manner. “You’re attempting to distract me,” she murmured.

  “Yes, I am. Is it working?”

  His fingers dipped beneath the surface of the water to tease between her legs . . . and she forgot all her questions. For now.

  Daylight brought a different mood to the Bronze House. It was less elegant, more practical. Maids and servants bustled throughout, washing off the previous night’s debauchery and battening down the hatches for the upcoming revelry. Suppliers and workers were in and out to make deliveries and conduct repairs. Clay spared no expense and paid his people well. Nothing less than the best would do for this shining jewel of vice and sin.

  He generally rose at ten or eleven in the morning and dressed. Then he’d sip his coffee and walk through the various rooms of the casino, checking on every nook and cranny. He loved this place.

  This morning he lingered a bit longer over his morning routine. He was tired, the late nights with Florence catching up with him. She was worth every yawn and grumble the next day, however. He couldn’t get enough of her. Adventuresome and bold, she wasn’t afraid of him. She challenged him in unexpected ways, like her willingness to experiment and asking questions about different preferences.

  He nodded at a maid as she polished the brass on the main bar. “Good morning, Adeline.”

  She paused and blinked up at him. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Very fine work you’re doing. Thank you.”

  “Oh.” She cast a wary glance at the railing. “It’s my job, sir.”

  A hand landed on Clay’s arm. It was Jack, who’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “Yes, very nice work. You may carry on, Adeline.” He began towing Clay across the room. When they were out of earshot, he said, “Stop being nice to the staff. It makes everyone nervous.”

  Clay frowned. “What does that mean?”

  They came to a halt. “It means that your mood swings have everyone on tenterhooks around here. We’re not used to seeing you smitten.”

  “I am not smitten,” he scoffed. Jack made a face that communicated his skepticism on that statement. Clay decided to leave it alone. Instead, he asked, “Am I not allowed to be moderately happy for even a few days?”

  “Neither of us has time for this conversation,” Jack said. “Duncan Greene is upstairs in your office.”

  Christ. Clay’s body tightened, every nerve on alert. He’d expected this, only not so soon. “And when were you going to tell me?”

  “He just arrived. I was coming to tell you when I found you scaring Adeline.”

  “No doubt he’s learned of the building plans filed with the city.”

  “No doubt.”

  If Clay hadn’t been holding a china cup he would’ve rubbed his hands together. God Almighty, he was looking forward to this exchange. “Then I best give him the bad news.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “That’s unnecessary. You have a lot to do and I don’t expect this to last long. He’ll threaten me and then storm out.”

  “Well, I’m not far if you need me.”

  Clay clapped Jack on the shoulder, grateful for this man who always had his back, and then headed for the stairs. Anticipation slithered over his skin. These plans were years in the making, so much blood and sweat. Fighting and scraping. All with one goal in mind: to get his hands on Duncan Greene’s childhood home and destroy it.

  How do you like having your life upended, Duncan?

  It wasn’t exactly an eye for an eye. Duncan had considerably more money than the Maddens had at the time they lost their home. The Greenes wouldn’t be forced to live in a crowded tenement with rats, bedbugs and disease. Not to mention this wasn’t even a house in which Duncan currently resided.

  But taking his family home was the vow a young Clay had made all those years ago . . . and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to see it through.

  Even if it meant dealing a blow to Florence’s future.

  Granny’s house is critical to my future plans.

  Regrettable, but he’d find a way to make it up to her.

  He threw open his office door and stepped inside. Duncan had made himself right at home in a chair across from the desk, his large bulk settled as if he belonged there. The other man looked over his shoulder, saw Clay, and remained seated.

  Very well, then. No pleasantries.

  Clay smothered a smile as he closed the door and strolled toward his desk. Duncan was annoyed, which brought Clay an unbelievable amount of joy. “Mr. Greene.” He lowered himself into his office chair and took a sip of his coffee. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Duncan’s eyes were hard, his expression closed off. He was a big man with a barrel chest, well dressed. He’d spent his boyhood boxing, shooting, playing baseball and riding—basically any physical activity in which rich young men dabbled. He was the picture of wealthy entitlement in a city that rewarded such circumstances.

  “You know why I am here.”

  Clay lifted the cup to his mouth. “Do I?”

  “Tell me, Madden. Why Seventy-Ninth Street? You could build anywhere in the city. There are plenty of empty lots, not to mention swamplan
d to be excavated. Yet, you chose this particular block in this particular neighborhood. Why?”

  “Perhaps seventy-nine is my favorite number.”

  Duncan’s face didn’t change. “Try again.”

  Clay finished his coffee and carefully set the cup on his desk. “I cannot see how I owe you an explanation regarding my plans.”

  “You are attempting to build a club-slash-casino around my mother’s home, so I would like to know why. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t learn who was behind the plans?”

  “I never really cared,” Clay lied and folded his hands in his lap. “I seem to recall there was one homeowner who wouldn’t sell. Was that your mother?”

  “You know damn well that it was.”

  “Why are you here, Greene?”

  “Tell me what it will take for you to abandon this plan of yours.”

  “You don’t have enough money to stop me.”

  “That sounds like a challenge.”

  “I do relish watching you fail, however. So please, by all means. Try to prevent me.”

  Duncan shot out of his chair and slapped his palms on Clay’s desk. “You stupid bastard. I am not some lowlife thug or two-bit thief you are able to intimidate. I can bury you with one word to the mayor’s office.”

  The threats would have angered Clay if he wasn’t enjoying all this so damn much. He slowly pushed back and rose, leaning in to drive his point home. “I own more men in the police department, mayor’s office and Tammany Hall than you could ever hope to meet. Own, as in with debts those men could never repay. You cannot stop this, Greene, no more than I was able to stop an arrogant young buck from buying up an entire block on Seventh Street twenty years ago and displacing all the families living there.”

  Duncan rocked back on his heels slightly, his head cocked. “Seventh Street? Are you . . . Are you saying that yours was one of the families relocated after I built that office building?”

  “Relocated. What a fancy, college-educated word. I prefer swindled.”

  “That’s absurd. I paid fair market value for that land.”

  “You most certainly did not,” Clay sneered. “The families were given a pittance with which to resettle elsewhere. My family ended up in a tenement on Delancey Street, where my younger brother soon died of cholera. So spare me your fair market value.”

  Duncan dragged his hands through his hair, his eyes wild. “Wait, this is all some revenge plot on your part? Against me?”

  Clay didn’t answer immediately. He retook his seat and shifted to get comfortable. “In case I haven’t made myself clear, you cannot prevent me from building on this particular block. Perhaps your mother might wish to invest in some cotton to stuff in her ears. It’s likely to be very loud at night.”

  Duncan’s skin darkened to a deep red, a vein popping in his temple. “She is an old woman in her sixties, Madden. Have you no heart?”

  “None, Greene. Absolutely none. It was stolen from me at the tender age of eleven when my family was uprooted and destroyed.”

  “You son of a bitch. If you believe for one second that you’ve won, you sorely underestimate me. I have more friends in this town—as well as more money—than you do.”

  “Friends aren’t what count in this city. I have spent my life amassing the power and financial resources to destroy your family home. Nothing will stop me from seeing this through.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “And you are wasting your breath and my time.”

  Duncan’s jaw tightened, his chest heaving. “You have made a very powerful enemy today, Madden.”

  Clay gave the other man a dark grin. “Wrong. We’ve been enemies for two decades. You just didn’t realize it until today.”

  Duncan didn’t say anything else. He stomped to the door and flung it open, and Clay listened to the other man’s steps as he retreated out of the club. That had been a thoroughly satisfying encounter. He had certainly enjoyed it, at least.

  Even better, this wouldn’t be the last time he faced down Duncan Greene. Clay could hardly wait.

  Let the games begin.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Florence paced the length of her grandmother’s petit salon. Her skirts rustled, the silk whispering over the expensive Eastern carpets. This room was one of Granny’s favorites. Done in shades of blue and white, the decor was classic French with modern art on the walls. They often took tea in here when just family called.

  Learning about the development plans had been hard on Granny, clearly. Easter dinner had carried on without her, though it had been a subdued affair. No one had felt much like chatting after Daddy’s news. Her grandmother had already canceled this week’s euchre game.

  Florence had been worried, so when Granny requested a visit this morning, Florence had hurried over. Now that she was here, anxiety twisted in her chest and the wait seemed like hours. What would Granny do if Daddy couldn’t fix this? Would she stay or sell the house after all?

  The idea of a sale nauseated Florence. This house represented freedom, choices and opportunities that would be denied her without it. If it was torn down, her future would be altered in ways she couldn’t begin to predict.

  The sound of her grandmother’s charm bracelets alerted Florence to the older woman’s approach. She turned toward the door to find Granny sailing over the threshold. “Hello, Granny.”

  “Florence, there you are. You are a sight for poor, tired eyes.” Granny enveloped her in a fierce hug. “I apologize for running off before Easter dinner.”

  “I understand.” They separated and she followed her grandmother to the sofa. “How are you feeling?”

  Granny set a stack of papers on the low tea table. “Sad. However, nothing lasts forever. We were one of the first families on this block, and everything has changed so much since those days. It’s the march of time, I’m afraid.”

  “Does that mean you are going to sell?”

  Granny sighed as she poured tea for them both. “I don’t like the idea of it. You should have this house after I’m gone. It should stay in the family, not become rubble dumped into the harbor. However, I cannot see any alternative.”

  God, that was depressing. She tried to remain positive. “Daddy may find a way to prevent the project from moving forward. He knows everyone in the city.”

  “Yes, but even some things are out of your father’s control. Though he would never admit it.”

  “True. He hates when I don’t obey him. He says he’s stopped trying to understand me.”

  “It is a daughter’s job to give her father gray hairs.”

  “Then consider me a rousing success,” she said drily, causing her grandmother to chuckle. “You had some wild days when you were a debutante, I bet.”

  Granny’s lips compressed as if she might be fighting a grin. “It was different then. Before the city was so built up and organized.”

  Florence hummed as she sipped her tea. “I will pry those stories out of you someday.”

  “I shouldn’t. Your father would have my head if I encouraged any more recklessness out of you girls.”

  Unlikely. The Greene sisters needed no encouragement whatsoever when it came to recklessness. “I won’t tell him.”

  “Perhaps someday, then. Today we are here to discuss you. I thought you might tell me your idea, the one you wish to pursue in lieu of marriage.”

  Florence watched the tea leaves circle in the bottom of her cup and pondered on how to proceed. What if her grandmother said no? There was no alternative plan, so if Florence bungled this then a casino might be out of reach.

  No fear. Show confidence until you feel it.

  Palms gone damp, Florence set her cup on the table. “I wish to open a casino just for ladies.”

  Granny’s brows shot up and her lips parted in surprise. Florence remained still and let the information settle. No need to rush in and overwhelm her grandmother with reasons and ideas. That would come later.

  Her grandmother collected herself afte
r a few long seconds. “A casino for women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gambling is illegal.”

  “Says the woman who hosts a weekly cutthroat euchre game for jewels.”

  Granny waved this off with an elegant twist of her wrist. “But those are just for friends. You are talking about going into business for yourself. As a casino owner.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Forget what your father will say, you must know what this means for your matrimonial prospects.”

  “I am aware. I do not expect to have any prospects, which is perfectly fine.”

  “You could keep your involvement in this venture a secret.” Granny’s shrewd gaze took in Florence’s face. “But I am gathering you do not care for that idea.”

  “I want to do it. I think I’ll be quite good at it, actually.”

  “But, Florence.” Her grandmother set her cup down. “This means more than having a space where women can gather and play cards. This means shaking down people who owe you money and punishing the cheaters. It’s not a noble profession.”

  “Only because gambling is illegal. If it were legal no one would look down on owning a casino.”

  “I think you’re wrong, but let’s move on from that argument. How would you even know what to do? It takes a huge amount of time to learn the various games and how to run them. Doing the books and managing employees. I cannot even begin to think of all the details—and I plan the Forsythia Ball each year. Let me tell you, there are always complications you don’t foresee.”

  “You’re right, it is a huge effort. But I’ve been studying for almost a year. I know all the games and how they work. And, for the past month or so, I have apprenticed with a casino owner. He’s shown me—”

  “Apprenticed! Goodness, you are serious.”

  “Very serious, Granny. I go late at night when the casino is open so that I may see how it runs.”

  “That must be tremendous fun. I don’t suppose your father knows about this.”

  “No, absolutely not. He would lock me in my room if he found out.”

  “You are not wrong. He may never understand your reasons for wanting to do this. Are you willing to sever a relationship with him, possibly permanently?”