Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3)

by Theodora Taylor

  Not a skyscraper necessarily, but close enough to be called obnoxious by a few of the residential buildings behind us, who got their view ruined when Zahir and I decided to go in on the building project together.

  At the time, I’d wanted something to call my own. A bachelor pad to impress the ladies before kicking them out after sex.

  But now I’m using that state-of-the-art real estate acquisition to hold my ex-wife prisoner, because…hell, I’m still not sure why I’m doing this.

  There’s revenge, yeah. However, I’m also working the proximity formula again with this dinner every night move. And this time my end goal ain’t nearly as clear as when I went after her like a big game hunter in grad school.

  All I’m sure of is that I don’t have any intention of letting her go. She’s pregnant. With my baby. And she lied to me about it. Her duplicity cancels out all previous agreements. That means she’s mine now. Whether she likes it or not.

  “Not yet,” Stone answers my question about the video. And he sounds just as grim as me as he says, “Lemme get Rock on the three-way.”

  The story doesn’t get much better with Rock on the line. Apparently, Stone and a few of the Ferraro soldiers bust into Amber’s office to find…well, nothing but a cold cup of coffee and one stale cronut still in the bag. There was no sign of the assistant we’re pretty sure caught everything Stone said and did to Naima on tape. Stone phoned Rock, who immediately sent a hacker to join Stone at the office—or as Rock calls it, “hack up.” Meanwhile, Rock and Joey went to case Amber’s place.

  Rock was able to use Amber’s laptop to announce to her entire mailing list that 1) she was pregnant, 2) I was the father, and 3) she’d decided on doctor’s orders to take a leave of absence from work for the rest of her pregnancy, and 4) move in with me. So my tracks are covered, but neither Rock nor his best hacker contact could pull anything related to the possible assistant off Amber’s laptop or work computer.

  “Whoever set her up with those sunglasses wiped her desktop. They might have even done a remote job on Amber’s laptop, too,” Rock tells me, sounding a little impressed. “I’m still thinking it’s an assistant, though, because according to Amber’s bank records, she’s been sending a bi-weekly direct deposit to an offshore account.”

  “Did you guys follow the money?” I ask.

  “’Course,” Stone answers.

  “But the account’s been closed as of this morning,” Rock finishes with an apologetic tone. “It was probably a bounce-around job anyways.”

  “Bounce-around,” I repeat. “You mean her assistant made the account untraceable by running it through a few other accounts?”

  “Yep. Total ghost,” Stone answers, his voice more annoyed than impressed.

  “For all we know, this assistant of hers is some 12-year-old boy in Singapore,” Rock admits.

  “That’s why I hate these dark web assholes,” Stone says. “Nothing to grab and choke to death.”

  I almost laugh. Almost.

  “But the good news is, whoever was behind the recording doesn’t seem to walk on the same entirely legal side of the street as your special guest,” Rock says. “That means she might not be a threat.”

  Stone just harrumphs, and though he doesn’t say it, I can tell he’s thinking his twin’s “on that Pollyanna shit,” again.

  “And in other good news,” Rock continues on, as if he can’t hear his brother, “I got hold of Naima’s laptop, too, and fed them a story about her having to go back to Hispaniola to help her parents with an emergency. Her boss agreed to a leave of absence, no questions asked. It was a nice conversation actually. Just goes to show you not all social workers are jaded and burned out. Naima works with good people who appreciate her. And I brought a bunch of things back with me from her house, so she’ll really feel at home.”

  “Are you serious with this shit?” Stone asks. “She’s not our fucking guest. You know that, right? She’s a prisoner. Leverage.”

  “Maybe. But we don’t have to make her feel like that,” Rock answers.

  “There’s no ‘maybe’ about it—” Stone starts to say.

  But Rock railroads through his brother’s contradiction to tell me, “Also, Amber’s agreed to cook dinner for you, no problem.”

  I squint, and now it’s my turn to question the veracity of Rock’s cheery announcement. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Rock confirms, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “She just made a list and gave it to me. I’m about to go shopping now and take it back to her.”

  What the hell? That doesn’t even sound like Amber. I’d expected much more of a fight from her. But before I can question Rock any further, my official phone vibrates once on top of my desk.

  With a bad feeling, I saunter back over to my desk to check the iPhone I use for all my legitimate business.

  After the Face ID sees me, the “Attachment: 1 Movie” message disappears, and a thumbnail with a play triangle appears on the right side of the notification box.

  Fuck… “I’ll call you guys back,” I say, suspecting the worse as I end the call with one hand and open the text to click on the video link with the other one.

  My suspicion turns out to be right. A black screen with words “Let her go” appears followed by an edited video of Stone threatening the hell out of Naima.

  “Who is this?” I type when the video finishes.

  “Give her back, or I send this to the police.”

  “Good luck with your fake tape, but I doubt any of my friends will believe it’s real. And I’ve got friends in every borough.” I answer. Not incriminating myself over text but coming as close as I can to saying outright that any police officer she sent that tape to is either on my payroll or knows he will be if he does right by me.

  There’s a couple of dots, then…no answer.

  But I’ve got the feeling Amber’s ghost assistant isn’t backing down, just not answering. For now, at least. And I’m still not sure if this new issue is a pesky fly or an incoming bomb.

  For that reason and more, I’m not exactly trusting Rock’s assurances that Amber easily agreed to my dinner order. But when I walk into the apartment later that night, there’s loud Latin music playing, and I find Amber exactly where Rock said she’d be. In my apartment’s white and ceramic luxury kitchen with Naima and Rock. Rock’s sitting at the counter, but Naima and Amber are shaking their hips to the music as they move pots, pans, and dishes around, rearranging them inside the kitchen’s ivory cabinets.

  A renowned design team crafted this particular space to be what our marketing team called “a home cook’s dream” in the brochure. It has chef caliber appliances and a special teppanyaki cooktop, which in most cases means you can cook like a pro while looking out on the Manhattan skyline.

  But despite not being able to enjoy the view, Amber seems right at home in the kitchen I only ever use to Ninja Bullet protein shakes in the morning. Or at least she’s in the process of making the kitchen her home. I know that’s what she’s doing because I still remember how she reconfigured the kitchen at both my old Upper East Side place and our apartment in Queens. First things first, even before she unpacked her clothes.

  The memory hits me with a pang, see-sawing my icy heart. Because watching her like this. Like she used to be before we fell apart, makes my chest ache with an emotion that’s definitely not in the “make that bitch pay for what she tried to do to you” territory.

  I don’t know how to feel about that, or the fact she and Naima seem to be having a ball. Singing along and wiggling their hips to some guy who sounds like a smooth, Spanish version of Justin Bieber. Rock’s into it, too. His head’s bopping right along to the beat, and his appreciative gaze follows the swing of Naima’s wide hips as she restocks all the plates in the cabinet across from the stove.

  They definitely don’t look like prisoners, and he ain’t acting anything like their warden.

  “Luca!”

  The grand old time comes to an abrupt end
when Naima sees me standing there on the edge of the open kitchen.

  She cuts off dancing, and with the pause of her hips, Rock calls, “Alexa, stop!” to the Amazon Echo device, hanging out on the kitchen’s inner counter, right next to the Ninja Bullet.

  Amber turns in my direction just as the music stops playing, one hand jerking up to her belly as if an out of control gorilla has suddenly entered the room, and she’s got to protect it.

  And just like that icy rage settles right back in, blasting the memories from our marriage year to pieces.

  “Dinner’s not ready yet,” she tells me, her voice carefully level. “Rock and Naima said they weren’t starving, so I’ll start it when we’re done putting away the last of these dishes.”

  I don’t answer, just look at Rock.

  And he says, “Hey Naima, let’s get out of here. I know a great steak place, just a few blocks walk.”

  “No, I can’t. I have to help Amber with…”

  “It’s not an invitation, Nai,” Amber informs her.

  Naima’s eyes widen, and she looks between Amber and me, before coming back with a quiet, “Oh.”

  “I promise I’ll be good company to you,” Rock says, scooting away from the counter and getting out of his seat. “Good food, good jokes. You won’t suffer at all.”

  Naima smiles at Rock’s promise, but she eyes Amber worriedly.

  As if sensing her hesitation, Amber says, “Go on with him, Nai. I’ll be fine. Seriously.” Her voice is gentle, caring. The way it gets with the select few people she lets in—the way it used to get with me.

  “You know you’re the only man other than my father, who I ever loved.” She told me that once. Out of the blue. No special occasion. She just thought I should know. It’s another memory trying to pierce a hole in my ice-covered chest.

  “And Luca, tonight’s meal is super simple. Lo mein noodles. You can wait for me at the dining room table, maybe enjoy a glass of wine while I put it together.” The offer is courteous enough, and her face stays composed, bordering on serene. But I can’t tell if she’s serious, or just putting on a front for Naima.

  Either way, it works. “Oh, then…okay, I guess,” Naima says, giving in with a smile.

  Stone confiscated Naima’s purse, so she just has to grab a coat, and the two of them are gone. Soon after, I take a seat at the dining room table, ignoring Amber’s invitation to pair my wait with some wine.

  Usually, I have a glass or two with dinner. But not tonight.

  Yeah, I’ve set it up so that Amber has no choice but to stay here with me, and I know there’s nothing she can do about it. But I don’t like how easily she’s submitting to me. I take my seat at the dining table, tense and brittle as an iceberg, sitting underneath and unexpectedly hot sun.

  My wariness proves correct when Amber comes out.

  A fresh cold front of fury blasts through me when I see the platter in her hands. Lo mein noodles, covered in a spaghetti sauce with a couple of huge meatballs on top.

  The same meal she chose as my very last when I was her father’s teenage prisoner.

  I don’t like Italian food. To be clear, I used to, just like every other Italian kid who grew up in Jersey with early Sunday dinners after Catholic church. But now I can’t touch the stuff, because it reminds me of that week in the woods. Of Amber’s father beating the shit out of me, then sending in his beautiful daughter with a plate of delicious Italian food, even better than my mom’s and Aunt Peg’s.

  Amber knows that. She’s the only person on Earth, other than my twin cousins and parents who know why I don’t touch the stuff.

  Fuck you.

  That’s what this dinner is. One big plate of fuck you served with an insincere smile.

  “Mangiamo!” Amber says, taking a seat across from me.

  27

  Mood Indigo

  Amber

  Yes, fuck you, Luca Ferraro. Fuck you…

  Technically, I hate eating family style. There’s just too much potential for things to go wrong. But tonight, I pull the platter close to me with a smile. And his thunderous silence is worth any spillage that might occur when I use a pair of salad tongs to pull noodles covered in homemade spaghetti sauce onto my plate.

  It could use some parm, but other than that, it’s a pretty good replication of my mom’s recipe, especially considering that I had to use Asian noodles, so as not to tip his flunky cousin off to what I had planned when I gave him my list. It’s good enough, and I take another smug bite as I wait for Luca to explode.

  But then there comes the scrape of the platter, being pulled away from the side of my plate. And then there’s clinking as Luca seems to use his fork, not my salad tongs to put the makeshift pasta on his own plate. I pause, too stunned to act like I’m not listening to the sounds of him chewing his food. The Italian food, I know he hasn’t touched in over a decade and a half.

  “Pretty good,” he says, after a moment.

  “Glad you like it,” I answer, my voice deliberately light. “I’ll make it again tomorrow unless you’d rather order out.”

  More chewing sounds, then. “No, this is fine.”

  “So, you won’t mind if I put Italian pasta on my next shopping list? I can tell Rock that’s cool with you?”

  “Whatever you want,” he answers, right before his fork clinks down for another bite.

  Leaving me to focus on my own meal. And I do mean focus. The truth is I haven’t eaten full-on spaghetti since that time in the basement myself. This meal feels like the final at the end of my blind school rehabilitation course. One I can’t be sure I’m passing.

  “Would you ever have told me?” he suddenly asks, disrupting my intense concentration.

  I set my fork back down with the spaghetti still on it. “Are you going to start threatening everyone I love again if I don’t answer that question?”

  “You love this Pasture guy?” Luca asks. “Even though he dumped you when you needed him most?”

  “Pascoal,” I correct with an aggrieved sigh. “And agreeing to children you don’t want isn’t proof of love. Being honest and letting me go is technically the nicest thing he could have done under the circumstance.”

  “Why is it you have so much love and understanding for anybody who isn’t me these days?”

  “Because Pascoal never lied to me.”

  “Yeah, guess he didn’t lie to you,” Luca shoots back. “Not like you lied to me.”

  “Is that what this is about? Me lying?” I ask, my tone dropping down to angry and snide. “Okay, I’m sorry. There. Can you let Naima and me go now and arrange a basic custody agreement like an even halfway decent guy with a surprise baby on the way would?”

  “As sincere as that Holt toast apology of yours sounded, no can do,” he answers. I hear the clink of him putting down his own fork. “Maybe if you hadn’t lied straight to my face, we’d be doing this civilized. I would’ve sent my lawyer over to your office in Queens, taken every other week, as long as you agreed to a couple of guards for protection, and it would have been done. I might have even found a way to forgive you if you told me everything at the Benton Grand. But you lied. Straight to my face. And I’m guessing, you never would have told me that the baby you’re carrying is mine.”

  My heart squeezes because he’s right. I would never have told him. Before I got caught, I would have raised the baby with Naima, without ever letting Luca know about his existence. And moreover, I would have been right to do so.

  “I grew up with a mafioso for a father, and I don’t want that for my baby,” I tell him straight up.

  “Probably should’ve thought about that before fucking a don in the back seat of his car,” he answers. Immediately, like he was just waiting for me to say something about his criminal background. “And you definitely should’ve reconsidered before lying to me about any of this. I’m not Holt. I’m not going to say all is forgiven, just because you ‘had your reasons.’ I’m also no longer the guy who chose you over his family back i
n the day, so don’t mistake me for him. Not even close. There will be no custody agreement. Just you, doing what I say from now on, capisce?”

  “Y--you can’t just keep me here. Keep Naima here. Against our will,” I sputter, my law degree eloquence failing me in the face of his ruthless decree.

  Luca makes a cold sound somewhere between a laugh and a hmm. “I’m a don now, Amber, and I can do whatever the fuck I want,” he answers, his voice deadly quiet. “While all you can do is try to fight me with spaghetti.”

  I clench one of the knives Naima set out at all the table settings when she thought it would be four people, a few of which might prefer to cut up their spaghetti like she still does at the age of 36 and despite my many admonishments about proper Italian etiquette. It’s only a butter knife, but I’m not tied to this chair like Stone tied up poor Pascoal in that freezer. One butter knife is all I need.

  “If you try to kill me with that knife or break out any of that kung fu shit with my baby inside of you, I will keep you alive just long enough to squeeze out this kid. Then I’ll have Stone take you on another walk through the woods.”

  My heart trembles as the blood drains out of my face because he’s right. I hit him with spaghetti, and he hit me with my worst nightmare before I could even finish my thought about attacking him. No doubt about it, his weapons are way bigger, sharper, and deadlier than mine.

  My hand loosens around the knife, but I tell him hard and true, “I’ll never stop hating you.”

  “That’s fine,” he answers like I’ve just told him we’ll be having a box of raisins for dessert. Not the ideal final course, but apparently my everlasting hate is something he can live with.

  The conversation is pretty much over after that. We eat the rest of our dinner in silence, and as if to prove I hold absolutely no power over him in this situation, I listen to him eat a second and third serving of the spaghetti, while I barely get through half of what’s on my plate.