Ice trickles down my spine. Mikhail Vasiliev is the head of the Russian Bratva. He’s the most dangerous man in the New York Metro area.
“I see from your reaction that you know who Vasiliev is, Mr. Doyle. Then you know how serious the matter is. There are consequences to stealing from the mafiya.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Watch Levi,” he says. “If you find any sign that he’s slipping back in with Beecham,” he slides a business card across my table, “contact me right away.”
I take the card and tuck it in my wallet. Sullivan rises to his feet. “Have a good day, Mr. Doyle.”
10
Hudson
I spend most of Thursday catching up on work, but my thoughts keep drifting to Wendy. The way she’d stepped in to defend that woman at the club without a thought about her own safety. The abandon with which she’d kissed me. The passion with which she’d talked about her work.
She intrigues me. I can’t wait to see her again.
Is this wise? My conscience prods me. Wendy is a good person. All I’m willing to offer her is a temporary fling, and she deserves so much better than that. She deserves the full, undivided attention of someone who wants to make her happy, and I can’t be that man. Not after Megan.
I get back to my apartment just as the sun begins to set. Roger, the doorman in my building, waves when he catches sight of me, and I detour toward his desk. “A gentleman dropped this off for you, Mr. Fleming,” he says, handing me a large envelope. “He said it was urgent.”
“Thanks, Roger.” The damn thing looks like it’s from a law firm. My thoughts instantly go to Megan, and I bitterly wonder if she’s run out of money. It won’t be the first time. I’ve had to fend off more than one attempt to renegotiate our divorce settlement.
Exhaling with frustration, I rip the cover open. It’s not from Megan’s lawyer. It’s from a law firm I don’t recognize, Anderson Massey Dodd. The letter tells me that their firm has been appointed the executor of Paul Hancock’s will, and request my attendance at the reading of the will, which will take place on Friday afternoon. I’m welcome to bring my lawyer, but the event is otherwise private.
I don’t understand what’s going on. My father had done business with Paul Hancock, but he cut ties with the man after the Staten Island deal, and never spoke to him again. I can’t think of any reason for me to be invited to tomorrow’s gathering. This can’t be good.
I call Asher. “Something’s happened,” I tell him grimly when he picks up the phone. “I’ve been named a beneficiary in Paul Hancock’s will.”
“What?” He sounds shocked. “Do you think it’s connected to Staten Island?”
“It has to be, but why now, after all these years?”
My heart aches when I think of that land in Staten Island, about the many conversations my father and I had had about his plans for the property. He’d wanted to build a mixed-use complex in the borough, with senior housing, low-income housing and enough retail to make the project profitable for a developer. “When you become an architect, Hudson,” he’d tell me, “you can design it for me. Deal?”
“Deal,” I would reply, though the project had never been as real to me as it had to him.
In the three painful months following his death, I’d worked on those drawings, night and day, until I was done. It had been my way of mourning him. No one has ever seen those sketches, not Nadja, not even Asher, but it is my best work, a way to honor the man who had raised me to be a decent human being.
Asher doesn’t reply to my question. “How did you find out about being a beneficiary?” he asks.
“The law firm managing his estate sent me a letter. The will reading is tomorrow at two.”
“Did they say something about being able to bring a lawyer? That’s routine in cases like this.”
“Yes.” I re-read the letter in my hand. “Can you make it?”
“You bet.” He sounds grim. “If there’s even the slightest chance that Thorne’s not going to inherit his father’s money, I’m going to be there.”
I hear someone say something in the background, and Asher mutters a curse. “Got to go, Hudson. There’s a crisis here. I’ll swing by your work tomorrow, and we can ride up together, okay?”
I’m about to hang up when something strikes me. “Will Thorne Hancock recognize you?” I ask my friend. I’m always hesitant to mention Lauren to Asher. Some wounds cut deep, and none had cut deeper than her death. “From the trial?”
“I doubt it,” he replies. “It was ten years ago, and we only met once in court. He’s unlikely to remember my name.”
Something tells me things won’t be quite as simple as that. Something tells me that tomorrow is going to be very, very complicated.
11
Wendy
Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.
Charles R. Swindoll
I’m a divorce attorney. I know how to dress for battle. Friday morning, I choose my most severe gray suit and pair it with a pale blue silk blouse. Four-inch heels complete the picture. I apply my makeup with a careful hand. Today, I need to look formidable.
Beverly whistles when she sees me. She beckons me over. “Are you interviewing at another law firm?” she asks me in a hushed voice.
“What?” I give her an astonished look. “What would give you that idea?”
“It’s Friday, and you’re all dressed up,” she points out. “Also, you’ve been leaving work earlier than normal all week.”
Oh, good grief. I’ve probably become the topic of gossip for the entire firm. None of the lawyers leave before eight in the evening. Working long hours is par for the course. Even if I make partner, I’ll still be expected to put in a minimum of sixty hours a week.
Is this what you want to do for the rest of your life?
I dismiss that uncomfortable thought. I love my job, I tell myself firmly. I love helping people in trouble. I’ve worked hard for it. But a nagging feeling of discontent remains.
A little after one, I head to the nearby offices of Anderson Massey Dodd and ride the elevator to the thirty-third floor. The young woman at the reception looks up with a smile as I march up to her. “Can I help you?” she asks pleasantly.
I discreetly wipe my palms on my skirt. I’m nervous about today. Being asked to show up for this reading is so unexpected, and I have no idea what to expect. “I’m here for the will reading of Paul Hancock,” I reply. Even though law offices are familiar surroundings for me, I feel out of place here. I’m waiting for someone to call me an impostor. What connection do I have with Paul Hancock, after all? One sperm managed to penetrate one egg thirty-one years ago. Does that make him a parent? Of course not.
“And your name is?”
“Wendy Williams.”
I must be on a list because she nods immediately and rises from her chair. “Let me show you to the conference room.”
I follow her down a short hallway to a large meeting room. There’s a round table that can seat about twenty in the center of the room. About a dozen people are already there, standing around the table in groups of twos and threes, engaged in quiet conversation. When I enter, muted whispers break out, and a couple of people stare openly at me.
If the receptionist senses the tension in the room, she doesn’t let on. She leads me toward the food-covered tables lining one wall of the room. There’s coffee and juice, a tray of sliced fruit, and an assortment of pastries. “Please help yourself,” she says. “I’ll fetch Mr. Greene.”
I’m not sure if anyone knows who I am, and I’m not ready for conversation. Butterflies are doing the Lord of the Dance in my stomach. Though I skipped lunch, I’m too nervous to eat, so I pour some hot water into a mug and find a bag of green tea. While it steeps, I nibble on a piece of pineapple, staying in my corner.
A minute later, Derek Greene hurries into the room and makes a beeline in my direction. “I thought I told you to bring a lawyer,” he hisses into my ear. �
�They’re going to eat you alive.”
“I can take care of myself,” I lie. My heart is hammering in my chest. The looks people are giving me aren’t friendly, and I have a bad feeling about what’s going to come next. I wish belatedly that I had asked Asher for help. Me and my stupid pride.
“You’re being a fool,” Derek says bluntly. The door opens again, and he stops talking abruptly. A tall man with slicked-back blond hair and an unpleasant glare on his face walks in. I’ve never met him, but I have seen photos of him online. This is my half-brother, Thorne Hancock.
Thorne walks around the room, greeting the people there. When he catches sight of me, a frown appears on his face. “Who the heck are you?” he snaps. “And what are you doing here?”
I wonder what would happen if I tell Thorne the truth. I feel no obligation to keep Paul Hancock’s secret. Lillian Hancock, Paul’s wife, is the only person I might want to protect, but she’s been dead for fifteen years.
An innate sense of caution keeps me quiet. Information is power, and until I know why I’ve been invited today, I’m going to hold my tongue.
A gray-haired man standing nearby intervenes before I can think of an answer. “Your father wanted Ms. Williams here.” He holds out his hand in greeting. “My name is Bill Anderson,” he says. “I’m the executor of Mr. Paul Hancock’s estate. I’m so glad you could make it here today.” He turns to my half-brother, who’s still glowering at me. “Thorne, why don’t you take a seat? We’re just waiting for one more person and then we can get started.”
Everyone moves to a seat. No one sits next to me; the chairs on either side are left vacant. We might as well be in high school again.
A couple of minutes after two, the receptionist pushes open the conference room door. Two men walk into the room, possibly the last two men I expected to meet at my father’s will reading. Hudson and Asher.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I’m shocked to see them, but not as shocked as they are to see me. Hudson stops dead in his tracks. Asher, a half-pace behind, almost collides into him before drawing up short. I’m looking right at them as they enter and I can see the flare of astonishment on both their faces.
Bill Anderson springs to his feet and shakes Asher’s hand. “Mr. Doyle,” he gushes. “What a pleasure it is to meet you. I don’t know if you remember me, but we were on a panel together last year at the Law Society.”
Asher smiles politely. “Of course,” he replies. “Tort reform, wasn’t it? Good to see you again, Bill. Sorry we’re late.”
“It’s my fault,” Hudson says, moving to the vacant seat on my left. “Work was a little crazy this morning.”
If my presence caused a stir in the room, it’s nothing compared to the consternation that Hudson’s arrival causes. Multiple conversations break out in the room. The man sitting next to Thorne taps on his shoulder and says something urgently, his gaze never leaving Hudson’s face.
Hudson ignores the chaos and ducks his head in my direction. “What are you doing here?” he asks in a low voice.
Asher settles himself at my right and leans toward us, trying to overhear my answer. I take a deep breath. I’ve never told anyone who my father is. I’ve kept Paul Hancock’s secret my entire life. Until now.
“You remember when I said my father wasn’t around growing up?” I ask them. “It was Paul Hancock.”
They are visibly shocked. “Does Thorne know?” Asher asks, a note of urgency in his voice. “Does he know there’s another claimant to the estate?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to be here,” I confess in a whisper. “I’m not going to claim anything.”
Hudson’s hand closes over mine. “Be careful,” he warns quietly.
Bill Anderson rises to his feet, and the room falls silent, cutting off our conversation. “Everyone’s here,” he says. He gestures to the massive monitor hanging on one wall. “Let’s get started. Please direct your attention to the screen.”
Asher and Hudson lean back, their expressions carefully neutral. Bill Anderson fiddles with a remote, and my father’s face fills the screen.
My breath catches. I’ve never seen the man. He should mean nothing to me, but seeing his face, lined with pain as he struggles to sit up in the hospital bed, I feel strangely emotional. His skin looks deathly pale, and his breathing is labored. He’s clearly dying in this video. What was he thinking in his last few days? Did he regret never connecting with me? It’s too late to find out.
“Hello everyone,” he says before he’s seized by a coughing fit. A nurse comes into view and fusses over him, but he waves her away and turns to the camera once again. “If you’re watching this video, I’m dead.” His lips twist into a wry grimace. “Please don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve had a better life than I deserve. I’ve done so many things I’m ashamed of.”
His voice trails off and he stares into the screen sadly for almost a minute before continuing. “But as my clock ticks down and the end approaches, I want to make amends.”
A cold dread prickles at the back of my neck. I have a sudden premonition that I’m standing on the threshold of something big—something that is going to transform my life.
Sure enough, he says the words I’ve waited an entire lifetime to hear. “When I was younger, I had an affair with a woman who worked for me,” he says. “That affair produced a child I’ve never acknowledged. My daughter, Wendy Williams.”
There’s an audible gasp in the room. Thorne jumps to his feet, his chair toppling over with a loud crash. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he snarls. “Bill, what the fuck is this?”
“Sit down.” Anderson’s voice is curt. “Let your father speak.”
Paul Hancock keeps talking on the screen. “I haven’t been much of a human being,” he says. “I spent my life building my company. I devoted everything to Hancock Construction. And now that I’m dying, I find myself at a crossroads.” There’s another long pause, and he takes a sip of water before continuing. “Who should run Hancock Construction after my death? Is it my son Thorne, who has been my second-in-command for the last four years? Or my daughter Wendy?”
My body goes cold. Please, I pray silently. Please don’t do this.
He’s doing this. “Hancock Construction employs ten thousand people.” My father’s eyes, the same unusually light blue color of my own, shine with emotion. “People whose livelihoods depend on me making the right decision. I’ve thought about what to do for many months, and I’ve finally reached a conclusion.”
Everything is going very badly wrong. No, no, no. Please, no.
Under the table, Hudson’s hand rests on my thigh. Asher moves closer to me, solid and reassuring. “We’re here,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone.”
“I’ve set aside two projects,” my father says on the screen. “A complex in Staten Island and a highway in South Carolina. I want Wendy to run the Staten Island project, and I want Thorne to run the one in Beaufort. You both have a year to complete the projects. The person that does the best job at the end will inherit my company.”
At the mention of Staten Island, a look of understanding dawns on Hudson’s face. I’m about to ask him when Thorne flings his cup of coffee in a shocking gesture of violence at the monitor. Shards of glass fly everywhere and a web of cracks appear on the screen, radiating from the point of impact. People jump to their feet.
“I’ve heard enough,” my half-brother rages. He addresses me directly, his expression intensely hostile. “You’re not the first gold-digger I’ve come across in my life,” he says. “And you won’t be the last. I don’t know what you did or said to my father to convince him to set up this insane contest, but if you think I’m going to stand by and allow this to happen, you’re wrong. I will take you to court, and I will ruin you.”
Shocked whispers erupt at Thorne’s tirade. I’m too shell-shocked to react. “Thorne Hancock,” Bill Anderson says sternly. “The will is valid. I was there when your father made it. These are his wishes.”
“Fuck his wishes,” Thorne barks. “Hancock Construction is my birthright.” He leans over the table, an almost crazed look on his face, and he looks into my eyes. “If you want to survive,” he warns me, “Walk away from this mess. Leave now, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
Well, that got ugly pretty quickly. At my side, both Asher and Hudson tense, and Hudson pushes himself to his feet, his face inches from Thorne’s. “You threaten Wendy again, and I’ll make sure you regret it.” His voice isn’t loud, but there’s so much menace layered in his tone that the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Bill Anderson clears his throat. “Do you want to hear the rest of the terms or not?” he snaps at Thorne, who settles back in his seat, giving Hudson a look of loathing. Anderson continues, ignoring the coffee slowly dripping down the screen. “Here’s how the contest is going to work,” he says. “Ms. Williams, Mr. Hancock recognized that his son, who has worked at Hancock Construction since college, has many built-in advantages. However, he recruited a team of people to help you.” He clears his throat and looks at Hudson. “Given the history of the Staten Island plot, he hoped that Mr. Fleming would agree to be the architect.”
What history? I have no time to ask Hudson because Bill Anderson keeps talking. “At the end of the year, I will judge, along with the board of directors, which project has been the most successful.” He gives us a stern look. “I will be monitoring both projects. If there’s any hint of cheating or fraud, I have the authority to cancel the contest and put the company up for sale.”
He turns to me. “Your father realized that he couldn’t force you to participate,” he says. “But he wanted to remind you that the livelihood of thousands of people was at stake. What do you think, Ms. Williams? Are you in?”
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