The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

  “Really.” Clay forced himself to relax in his chair. “The city, you say?”

  “Yes. They plan to build a public school on that block. All the property you bought on Seventy-Ninth Street will be acquired via eminent domain.” Florence’s father tossed the papers onto Clay’s desk. “I’m afraid you lose, Madden.”

  Clay didn’t touch the papers. “Impossible. I never lose.”

  Duncan made a patronizing noise in his throat, as if Clay was cracked. “If you look at the papers you’ll see this issue is over. The city will use the property to build a school. No casino will exist there.”

  “Wrong.” Clay reached into his desk drawer and held up a set of papers. “I don’t need to look at those papers. I have my own matching set right here. The person representing the city, Mr. Crain? He’s actually on my payroll. The school on Seventy-Ninth Street? Fake. In fact, the city has no interest in building a school there. However, they were interested in helping me get the last piece of property I needed for my casino project—for a hefty price, of course.”

  Duncan jerked in his seat, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. “But the contracts I signed . . .”

  “Are legal and binding. The DESD, or what you thought was the Department of East Side Development, is not a real government department. It’s my company.”

  Greene’s eyes nearly bulged from his skull. “What are you saying? That I have . . .”

  “I’m saying you have signed the house over to me.” Satisfaction flooded his veins at the expression of horror on the other man’s face. With a sinister smile, Clay continued. “I filed the architectural plans to build around her merely to create a threat. I wanted to back you into a corner, force you to consider other options. Except I made certain I was behind those other options. You played right into my hands, actually. Your mother’s home now belongs to me.”

  You played right into my hands, actually. Your mother’s home now belongs to me.

  Florence froze, the words ringing in her ears as she watched from her hiding place, the peephole adjacent to Clay’s office.

  The school had been a lie. The city’s involvement had been a lie. The eminent domain? Also a lie.

  Clay had lied. About all of it.

  Her chest constricted as her mind rapidly turned this information over. Mr. Crain. Of course. That explained why she saw him both at the Bronze House and at her family home.

  Good Lord.

  It was too much to take in. Granny’s house . . . gone. Clay had known how much that house meant to her, how it impacted her future. It was more than a pile of stones to her. The home represented her independence, security to follow her dreams.

  Dreams she’d have to reconsider now that the house was lost.

  Florence sucked in a sharp breath and pressed a shaking hand to her stomach, reeling at the realization.

  Clay’s dark gaze met hers and pinned her to the spot, looking at the wall as if he could see right through it. Had he heard her gasp?

  She didn’t care if he knew she was here or not, dash it. Clay had used dishonest means to take her grandmother’s house, her father’s childhood home. Florence’s future. It would be absurd if it wasn’t so painful.

  How could he do this?

  She’d followed her father to the Bronze House, determined to get answers. The hansom driver had promised to keep pace with her father’s carriage for an extra two dollars, which Florence had gladly paid. She’d hoped for a reasonable explanation from Clay, one that would reassure her he wasn’t a complete monster.

  Wrong. He was an absolute monster . . . and she’d been an absolute fool.

  The walls began to close in around her, air in short supply. She leaned over and sucked in several long breaths. She had to escape. Get as far away from him and this place as possible.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the idea. No, she wouldn’t run. Why should she? She’d done nothing wrong. Instead, she would face him down and force him to admit the truth to her face.

  Standing, she found the latch and turned it. Light in the corridor stung her eyes but she moved her feet in the direction of Clay’s office. The heavy wooden door bounced off the wall as she shoved her way in. Jack jumped, straightening at the sudden noise, but then grimaced when he took in her expression.

  Clay did not react, his face impassive, almost as if he’d expected her.

  “Florence!” Her father shot out of the chair, his mouth falling open. “I thought I told you to stay away from here.”

  She paid him no attention. Indeed, her concentration remained on the man behind the desk. Somehow she managed to stand there, glaring at him while her heart lay shredded in her chest. Any hope she’d harbored that he wasn’t as terrible and heartless as people said was now destroyed. No, he wasn’t as terrible as his reputation. He was worse.

  “How could you?” she forced out. “My grandmother’s house, Clay. This whole time you were planning this . . . swindle.”

  He said nothing. Offered up no defense. His dark eyes were flat, accepting. She wanted to shake him, throw something at him. Anything to get a reaction from him. Shouldn’t he apologize? Grovel? Something?

  “Florence,” her father reprimanded. “Your presence here is hardly appropriate.”

  “Have you nothing to say?” she asked Clay. “No explanation for your actions?”

  “Every word of it is true.” His deep voice was clear, the damning words cruelly enunciated. “I offer no explanation, other than this is what your father deserves. An eye for an eye.”

  “It’s hardly the same,” she snapped. “My grandfather built that house for my grandmother. She’s older, not a family just starting out. You are robbing an older woman of her beloved home, not to mention me of my future.”

  “You’re right. It’s hardly the same. Your grandmother owns three other homes and has the means to buy any property she wishes. She won’t be forced to live in a Lower East Side tenement.”

  “You are a cruel, heartless bastard,” Daddy chimed in with. “Rotten to your very core. Getting what you want today certainly won’t change that.”

  “Probably not,” Clay admitted. “But it has been immensely satisfying to see you lose your family home.”

  Her father snatched the contracts off the desk and tore them in half, growling with the effort.

  Clay lifted a shoulder. “Crain has signed copies and he’s filing them with the city as we speak. Ripping up your copies accomplishes nothing.”

  Florence covered her mouth with a hand, too horrified to speak. Tears stung her lids, an oncoming flood of emotions that she desperately tried to stave off with a few blinks. She didn’t wish to cry in front of Clay.

  And to think, she’d come here in the hopes of hearing his side.

  Fool.

  “Florence, come on.” Her father took her arm and tried to tug her toward the door.

  Florence didn’t move, her feet rooted to the floor. “You knew. This whole time you knew what that house represented to me, why I needed it. And you knew you were taking it all away.”

  Silent, Clay studied her from behind his icy reserve. None of the heat or affection she’d seen so often over the past month was evident in his expression. It was as if he’d erected a three-story barrier around himself, a fortress that refused to let any emotion escape.

  God, this hurt.

  “That’s it, then,” she said quietly. “I suppose you’ve won.”

  He nodded once. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

  She drew herself up and strode to the door, desperate to get into a carriage and away from this place. With her hand on the latch, she paused, not ready to leave without a parting shot of her own. “Congratulations, Clayton,” she threw over her shoulder. “I wonder how long it will take you to figure out what you’ve lost.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Clay stared at the elegant four-story limestone building. The afternoon light bathed the facade in a golden glow, a rarified benediction seemingly reserved for t
he very best families. Families like the Greenes.

  Duncan Greene’s childhood home. Now it belonged to Clay.

  So why didn’t he feel satisfied?

  He’d won. He had everything he’d ever longed for as a boy. Money, power, a casino of his own. The Greene family home would soon be destroyed. His revenge was complete.

  Then why couldn’t he shake this dark restlessness?

  I wonder how long it will take you to figure out what you’ve lost.

  She was wrong. He’d known all along. With every step closer to his goal he knew he’d taken one step farther away from Florence Greene. Each day had felt like borrowed time.

  And now she would never forgive him.

  It had been two days but he could still picture the hurt and betrayal in her eyes, the horror at realizing what truly lurked underneath his fancy suit. This is why I always wear black. Because his soul was as dark as midnight. Scarred and ugly, the inside matching his outside.

  She was better off without him.

  He knew this and had accepted it. So why couldn’t he sleep at night? Why couldn’t he look at the casino floor without his chest aching like an open wound? Why couldn’t he take a deep breath without smelling her?

  He was losing his mind.

  Jack and Anna both had railed at him, begging him to reconsider. That no revenge was worth destroying his one chance at happiness. Clay disagreed. What’s done was done. Florence hated him and he could not undo the past. Besides, women like Florence Greene married rich, entitled swells, the kinds with blood bluer than sapphires. Soon she’d forget the criminal she had slummed with for a few months and move on.

  He, on the other hand, would always remember her. The woman had slid under his skin and clawed her way into his cold, dead heart. Something had unlocked inside him the day he met her, and he was man enough to know he’d never have that again. With anyone.

  He exhaled and reconsidered this outing. A summons had arrived today from the home’s current occupant, Florence’s grandmother. Hell if Clay knew why he’d agreed to come. Undoubtedly, she would try to talk him out of the sale.

  Too late. What’s done was done.

  So why was he here?

  Because you’re desperate for any news of her, any mention of her name.

  In other words, because he was a goddamn idiot.

  Stabbing his walking stick at the ground, he started up the front steps. A very proper butler answered the knock. “Mr. Madden. You are expected. Come in.”

  He crossed the threshold and removed his derby. The entrance was exactly what one expected of a home such as this, all elegance and understated wealth. Nothing gaudy. Tasteful art and gleaming wood. A large crystal chandelier hung overhead. This was Duncan Greene’s world, built off the backs of the less privileged, people like Clay’s parents.

  The butler took Clay’s things and showed him to a drawing room. As the butler announced him, an older woman rose from a sofa and folded her hands. She has Florence’s eyes. The realization nearly caused Clay to stumble. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t prepared himself for any resemblance between the two women. It almost felt unfair.

  Yet, a punishment you deserve.

  “Mrs. Greene,” he said and offered a stiff bow.

  “Mr. Madden. Thank you for coming to see me. May I offer you tea? Or something stronger?”

  “Definitely something stronger. Bourbon, if you have it.”

  The butler went to the sideboard and Mrs. Greene extended a hand toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

  He lowered himself slowly into a delicate French armchair likely older than Broadway itself. For a second he wondered if it would even hold his bulk. But hold it did, and soon the butler presented him with a crystal tumbler of bourbon. Surprisingly, Mrs. Greene took the same.

  “I wouldn’t have assumed you a bourbon drinker,” he said.

  “There is much men incorrectly assume about women. And your gender underestimates mine at your peril.”

  He thought about Florence and the initial assumptions he’d made based on her appearance and background. How wrong he’d been. She’d proven fiercely intelligent and utterly fearless. Not to mention absolutely enthralling. “I have no doubt you are correct.”

  Mrs. Greene sipped her drink and studied him over the rim of her glass. “In fact, you probably assume I’ve brought you here to talk you out of buying my home.”

  “I had, actually, assumed as much.”

  “You would be wrong. I hold no illusions about changing your mind. My son has explained your reasons and, while I wish it were otherwise, I cannot fault the emotion that drove you to take my home.”

  She couldn’t? Flummoxed, he took a long swallow of the best bourbon he’d ever tasted. Smooth and rich, the liquor was even better than the kind he usually stocked. “Then why have you asked to see me?”

  “It’s about my granddaughter.”

  Surprise knocked the air from his lungs. He could feel his skin heating—and he hadn’t blushed since boyhood. Christ.

  “I see I’ve surprised you,” she said, a soft smile twisting her lips. “I am fairly direct. It can take some getting used to.”

  A trait she shared with Florence, who had never hesitated to speak her mind around him.

  Calling on years of practice, he wiped any trace of emotion from his face. “You said something about your granddaughter?”

  “She’s come to me, quite upset about her role in all this. She feels guilty for befriending the enemy.”

  Befriending. Such a tame, useless word for what occurred between them. More like a life-altering collision. Two locomotives steaming down the tracks before they slammed into one another, forever changing the structure of their separate halves.

  “And?”

  She raised a gray brow. “I know my granddaughter almost as well as I know myself. And, based on her appearance and demeanor these past few days, I’m able to hear what is left unsaid. So tell me. Why is she walking around as if her heart has been broken?”

  Though he was the cause of it, he hated to hear of Florence’s unhappiness. What did you expect? You stole her grandmother’s home. He cleared his throat. “Presumably you mean well, madam, but this is hardly your concern.”

  “We’ll need to disagree, then. I understand the circumstances are less than ideal but she is my favorite granddaughter. I wish to know what happened between the two of you.”

  Keeping his expression completely neutral, he paused and tried to collect his thoughts. He certainly couldn’t tell her the truth. “I am a very private person, Mrs. Greene. I’d rather not share the details of my relationship with your granddaughter.”

  “How do you feel about her?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I care about her.”

  So do I.

  He shoved the words back down. This was not the time for sentiment. “That is not what I meant. Why would you encourage an association between your granddaughter and me?”

  She lifted the crystal to her mouth for a drink, her arresting eyes never leaving his face. “I don’t like you, that’s true. But I love Florence and I’d like to see her happy. Let me tell you a story.” Then she stared into the glass as she gently swirled the brown liquor. “When I came to New York City as a girl from Ohio, my family was shunned by society. We were wealthy, yes, but not the right kind of wealthy. The Greenes were low on money, however, and a betrothal was arranged with Florence’s grandfather. After a time we fell in love and he fought for me—against his family, society, anything that stood in our way. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. In the end, I triumphed over society, rising to its pinnacle.”

  She paused, looking a bit lost, as if trapped in a poignant memory, then continued. “He was a fearsome man, my husband, but loyal. Determined. Lived by his own set of rules. From what I am told you share these similar traits. We already know you’ll fight tooth and nail for what you want.” She waved her hand to indicate the room, the house in which they sat. “So are y
ou planning to fight for my granddaughter?”

  He blew out a breath, uncertain how to respectfully respond. Would he fight for Florence if winning her was possible? Fuck yes, he would. But this story differed wildly from the one Mrs. Greene told of her husband. More separated Clay and Florence than a pedigree. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a criminal, not a blue blood.”

  “Gambling is not a crime. Rape, murder, theft . . . those are crimes.”

  “Not according to the state of New York. Florence deserves better than being a criminal’s wife.”

  “Even when she longs to own a casino herself?”

  Clay rubbed his eyes with his fingers. While it appeared similar on the surface, there was a difference. “Longing to own something is not owning something.”

  “You think she won’t follow through.”

  “I didn’t say that. But I do believe there are factors she might not have considered yet. For example, her family will not approve of her operating a casino.”

  “Her family loves her without fail. They will support whatever endeavors she embarks upon.”

  “Even when society snubs her?”

  “Oh, she hates society. She won’t mind a bit if her invitations dry up, and the Greenes are too powerful to be snubbed.” She paused and studied him. “Besides, wouldn’t that work to your advantage? You do not move in society and you’re not fond of her family. Her being outcast from both would only make it easier for you.”

  “I don’t understand this. You cannot possibly wish for me to court your granddaughter after I bought this house.”

  “True, you would not be my first choice. Or even my second. But then, no one is good enough for Florence in my opinion—especially not a man who refuses to fight for her.”

  The dig was not lost on Clay. “Even if I wanted her, she’d never forgive me for this. She hates me.”

  “Hate and love are close cousins, as far as I’m concerned. And anything worth having doesn’t come easy, Mr. Madden. You should know that, considering how hard you’ve worked for all you have. I’m told your fortune rivals my own.”

  “Duncan would certainly never give his blessing.”