by Sarah Piper
He’d texted Aiden last night with a bare sketch of the situation with his brothers, including the news about Duchanes and the Chernikov demons, but now he filled him in on the rest.
“All in all, it was a right celebration,” he finished up, “just as you’d expect from a family who spent the last half-century pretending one another were dead. Wait, did I say pretending? I meant wishing.”
“It’s good you told them about the acquisition. Perhaps they’ll ease up about the alliance.”
Dorian nodded, though he didn’t share Aiden’s optimism.
“And your father’s death?” Aiden asked carefully.
“They didn’t inquire.”
“Dorian…”
He held up a hand, silencing Aiden’s warnings. The truth would reveal itself eventually—either by Dorian’s confession, or an enemy’s ill-timed discovery. Dorian would do his best to ensure it was the former, but until then, he didn’t wish to discuss it.
Taking his cue, Aiden switched tacks. “Sounds like quite an adventurous evening for a brooding recluse who hates socializing. Does this mean we’re still not talking about the woman?”
Dorian shot him a warning glare.
“Keep your secrets, then. But here’s something else that’ll put your cock on ice.” Aiden tossed a folder across the desk. “Armitage’s sons are involved now, and they want more face-time and more intel.”
“What? Why?” Dorian flipped through the file, a series of legal briefs outlining the types of information the Armitage mages wanted: SEC filings, P&L statements, trademark and patent filings, interviews of key staff, and the worst part—a bunch of informal meetings and get-to-know-you dinners.
Investigations were standard procedure during mergers and acquisitions for supernatural-owned and human companies alike, all to ensure the deal was aboveboard and the companies were a good match. But this felt downright invasive. Meetings? Dinners?
“Where is all this coming from?” Dorian asked. “I thought we were through the dog-and-pony phase. The fundraiser was supposed to be the last big hurrah.”
Aiden passed him another sheet of paper. “Apparently they’re fielding another bid, and you’ll never guess who’s offering.”
Dorian scanned the text, his blood turning to ice. “House Duchanes? You’ve got to be shitting me. What could those overgrown fraternity boys possibly want with Armitage Holdings?”
“Leverage.”
Dorian dropped the paper and massaged his temples, wishing he had something stronger than coffee. He didn’t think Armitage would back out of their deal now—not with Isabelle’s placement on the line, and the history of friendship he shared with Dorian’s father—but how could he be certain? Who knew what sort of discontent Duchanes had been sowing? Money and power talked—in business and alliances both—but so did gossip.
“What am I supposed to do about this prick?” Dorian asked.
“Invite him to the fundraiser. Show him you’re not intimidated by his antics.”
“I’d rather stuff him into an iron box and drop him at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
“All right, then. I’ll make some calls, see what we might arrange.”
Dorian sighed. The fundraiser was becoming more of a pain in his ass by the minute.
“Look, if you want Duchanes to back off,” Aiden said, helping himself to a sip of Dorian’s coffee, “you need to bring him into the fold. Treat him like family, maybe even offer him a position here, and perhaps he’ll let his guard down a bit.”
“Did you just put your filthy mouth on my favorite mug?”
Aiden raised his pinky alongside the mug, striking a posh pose. “I wouldn’t be stooping to such pedestrian levels if you’d been a proper host and offered me refreshment upon arrival.”
“How about a beating upon arrival?”
“That’s not my kink, Mr. Redthorne,” he said with a wink. “But no judgments.”
Dorian shook his head. He’d never known his friend to be in a sour mood—not even when Dorian was doing his best to push his buttons. But despite Aiden’s cheery disposition and the gorgeous weather outside, a deep sense of foreboding had crept into the day—one Dorian couldn’t seem to shake.
“Talk to me, Dori,” Aiden said, his voice softening. “Something’s got your knickers in a twist.”
“It’s this deal.” He flipped through the folder again. “Setting aside the problem of Renault Duchanes, why is Armitage dicking us around? They’ve seen our numbers. They know we’ve made every acquisition profitable, and with very little staff reduction. The old mage wants to unload his assets, and we’re the best suited to facilitate that. What are they worried about?”
“Come on, mate. Armitage is old money, conservative as hell—especially for a mage. With Duchanes entering the playing field, I’m sure his sons want to make sure he’s getting the best deal—for his business and for their sister, should it come to that.”
It made sense, and Dorian finally nodded, the knot in his chest loosening a bit. “You’re probably right.”
“You’d think after all these centuries, you’d remember it.” Aiden offered another smile, then drained the last of Dorian’s coffee. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any biscuits?”
“Bloody hell.” Dorian rose from the chair to fetch the box of cookies he kept stashed in the file cabinet and passed it over.
“Very kind of you, thanks,” Aiden said. “So… free advice?”
“Remind me again what I’m paying you for, exactly?”
“Play the game, mate. Just until the acquisition goes through and you’ve secured the witch. Then your family will be revitalized, Armitage can retire into the sunset, and you can go back to being that reclusive billionaire vampire jackoff we all know and love.”
“You’re a prince, Aiden. A real fucking prince.”
“My DNA spared me that particular curse.” He pulled a cookie from the box and pointed it at Dorian. “But Dori, you’ve got to make an impression at the fundraiser. A good impression. That’s why you’re hosting it.”
“I don’t like hosting parties.”
“I don’t care what you like. Louse it up, and these guys will walk—straight into the arms of House Duchanes.” He shoved the cookie into his mouth, powdered sugar coating his lips. “Wow, are these lemon biscuits? They’re wonderful. Don’t mind if I have another, do you?”
“We don’t even know if Armitage’s people will show.” Dorian pressed the intercom for his assistant. “Veronica, do we have an update on the final head count for Friday?”
Seconds later, she poked her head into the office. “Two hundred and sixty-one confirmed tickets.”
“And the Armitage people?”
“They’ve all RSVP’d.”
Dorian took a steadying breath. “I don’t suppose we’ve any regrets?”
“Not one.”
“Fuck me.” His foul mood was back with a vengeance, rapidly turning into a headache that drilled through the base of his skull. All those people, parading around Ravenswood, taking selfies in his garden, blathering on about the preschool admissions process, just as they’d done at the auction…
Sneaking into the closet for a night to remember…
“Don’t they have anything better to do?” Dorian snapped.
“What did you expect, Mr. Dark and Mysterious?” Aiden asked. “They all want a look-see behind the curtain.”
“I shouldn’t have put in that infinity pool.”
“I tried to tell you,” Aiden said.
“People are drawn to money like flies on shit,” Veronica said. “Rich flies. On solid gold shit. But still, I stand by the metaphor.”
Dorian looked at his assistant in the doorway—along with his driver Jameson, she was one of only a handful of humans in his employ. Ten years ago, she’d come to him as a blood donor—a human who consented to feeding vampires in exchange for money—but in the end, Dorian couldn’t do it. She’d begged him for the bite, desperately in need of cash.
<
br /> He’d offered her a job instead.
It was the best decision he ever made. She practically ran the whole place, and unlike the other women in his life, she’d never betrayed his trust.
“Veronica,” he said, “if you and Matthew had children, would you ever send them to a preschool that cost more than a university?”
Veronica laughed. “Oh, sweetie. If we had kids, we’d send them to your house. You have an infinity pool.”
On the desk, Dorian’s cell beeped with an appointment reminder.
“That’ll be your one o’clock,” Veronica said. “I’ll call for your car. Make sure you’re back for your two-thirty with the Armitage CFO. Oh, and you got a message from the bursar’s office at NYU. Something about finalizing a tuition payment for a Jonathan Braynard?”
“Thank you, Veronica. I’ll take care of it.”
“Fine. Just don’t forget about the two-thirty.”
“You have my word.”
He’d almost forgotten about the two-thirty. The CFO wanted to meet with Dorian for another walkthrough of the acquisition, an exercise in futility that would involve a lot of corporate-speak like “help me understand the narrative” and “I’m not seeing the vision, Mr. Redthorne.”
Total fucking waste of time.
“Anything else?” Veronica asked.
Dorian was about to send her off, but Aiden cleared his throat, tapping impatiently on the folder on the desk.
There was no way around it. Not yet, anyway.
“Extend an invitation to House Duchanes for Friday’s festivities,” he said grudgingly.
If Veronica was surprised at the request, she didn’t show it. “You got it.”
“All right.” Aiden rose from the chair and collected his files. “I’m heading out.”
“Does this mean I can have my chair back? And my desk? And my bloody coffee mug?”
“Of course, your highness. I’ve got a lunch date—Layla, hot new vampire from marketing. Wish me luck.”
“Workplace romance?” Dorian shook his head. “Now there’s a right terrible idea.”
“Who said anything about romance? I’d be happy with a shag in the copy room. Or maybe in the boss’s office since he’ll be out.”
“As will you, if you make good on that threat.”
“Did you know she competed on the Italian gymnastics team in the 1936 Olympics? I might need to limber up for this one.”
“Don’t break anything.”
“No promises.” Aiden leaned across the desk, scooping up the last cookie and smacking Dorian twice on the cheek. “In the meantime, I trust you’ll behave yourself for our Hastings visitors?”
Dorian flashed a wolfish smile. “Mr. Donovan, when am I not a perfect gentleman?”
Aiden waited until he was safely out the door before he finally replied. “Would you like my response in an e-mail, a photo essay, or a spreadsheet with sortable columns?”
Chapter Sixteen
“I’ve been thinking about our arrangement.” Rudy drained his martini and set the glass down hard on the patio table, making Charley flinch. “To say I’m disappointed is an understatement.”
She shrunk down in her chair, hoping no one else in the restaurant’s small outdoor seating area was listening in.
“I know. I’m… I’m sorry.” She cringed at the meek and desperate sound of her own voice—a ridiculous combo, considering her résumé. She was Charlotte fucking D’Amico, for chrissake. She’d learned how to crack a safe by the time she was fifteen, could spot a fake Dutch Master at a hundred yards, and had amassed more knowledge of art history than most PhDs and museum curators twice her age. Her father’s crew had watched her grow from a gangly kid into the strong, capable criminal she was today, but in Rudy’s presence, Charley would always feel like a silly little girl getting underfoot while the grownups planned their next big score.
Through a cool, gentle voice that belied the anger in his eyes, Rudy said, “Your last several outings have been less than informative.”
“How is that my fault? I can’t control what people do with their belongings before we get there.”
Rudy slammed his fist on the table, making her jump again. The people at the table behind them looked over.
Great. The last thing she wanted was another scene at Beyoglu. Just a ten-block walk from home, the Turkish café used to be one of her favorite lunch spots on the Upper East Side, but ever since Rudy had declared it their “usual” place, she hadn’t been back on her own. He’d embarrassed her in front of the staff too many times for that. Now, whenever they arrived together, the hostess sat them outside.
“I’d advise you not to take that adolescent tone with me,” he said, which Charley found ironic, considering he’d never stopped treating her like a kid. Still, she knew she was on dangerous ground.
Pulling off a successful heist wasn’t like the movies, where everything came together seamlessly over a pack of cigarettes, a few cartons of Chinese takeout, and a music montage. It took weeks—even months—of careful, tedious preparation involving blueprints and public records searches, background checks on the property owners, surveillance, onsite intelligence gathering, payoffs of household employees and security technicians, identity theft, document forging, route planning, in-case-of-injury planning, contingency planning, and yes—lots and lots of Chinese takeout.
Lately, Rudy had been relegating Charley to mind-numbing fact-finding missions at private auctions and events, bringing her in later, cutting her out earlier, sharing fewer secrets. For months, her efforts had turned up jack shit; she figured that’s why he’d been giving her the crap assignments. A punishment, a warning, call it what you want.
But lately she was starting to wonder if he believed she was involved in the infamous double-cross.
If he believed betrayal was genetic, passed down from father to daughter.
Charley sipped her water, trying to cool the rage boiling up inside her.
Rudy was pissed about her bad luck streak? Fine. But Charley was pissed too. Pissed that her parents had brought her into this world with no intention of helping her become a legitimate, tax-paying adult. Pissed that no one seemed to know what had truly happened to her father. Pissed that no one had bothered to find out.
It was her father’s inside guy, Rudy had always believed. A man none of them had ever met. Her dad had vouched for him, bringing him in at the last minute on a big job in the West Village. The mark was an extensive art collector, the cache valued at $70 million on the street.
Posing as contractors, her dad and the guy went in alone, with Rudy and the others in strategic positions throughout the city. Charley was at Rudy’s apartment, coordinating the whole thing through an elaborate system of coded text messages they’d worked out in advance.
The men had made it in, made it out, made it to the Holland Tunnel.
But that was the last anyone had heard from them. They never checked in again, never showed at the rally point in Jersey.
Hours turned into days. Charley and Rudy were frantic, the rest of the crew looking to them for answers they just didn’t have.
A week after the heist, her dad finally turned up—murdered and left in an abandoned tire warehouse in Trenton.
The art he’d boosted—along with the inside guy—had vanished.
There was no evidence at the scene, nothing to tie him to the theft. The police said it was a gang hit—gunshot to the head, body stashed, wrong-place-wrong-time kind of thing. But that was bullshit. People like Charley’s father never died from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everything was calculated and planned, nothing left to chance.
Rudy was out of his mind with grief over the loss of his brother, but he and the others were convinced it was an inside job—the worst kind. They believed Charley’s father had double-crossed them, intending to split the proceeds with his man, only to have it all go south on him.
Charley blinked away old tears.
In his life, her father h
ad been a lot of things. A master thief. A violent drunk. A cheating husband. Even a murderer, at least one time that Charley knew about. But he was a loving father, and unwaveringly loyal to the crew he’d handpicked from the best guys he’d ever worked with. Unwaveringly loyal to Charley.
Yeah, he was a bad man—she’d accepted that long ago.
But he was not a traitor.
Unfortunately, Charley was alone in that opinion, and she’d learned long ago not to bring it up to Uncle Rudy. When it came to the death and apparent betrayal of his only brother, he couldn’t go there.
“Tell me why we should keep investing in your professional development,” Rudy said now, “when you’re giving us nothing in return? The team is starting to question whether your head is in the game.”
Charley clenched her jaw. Nothing could be further from the truth. The game, as he put it, was her pathway to a normal life, and she was all in.
But how much longer could she keep playing by his fucked-up rules?
“I get it,” she said calmly, forcing a contrite smile. She needed to get back on his good side, and fast. “I’m sorry, Uncle Rudy. I’m frustrated too. The family from last night? They’re broke. Almost everything valuable went to auction long before we heard about them. And they—”
Charley snapped her mouth shut as the waiter approached.
“Get some appetizers, kiddo,” Rudy said, waving a hand over the menu. “Whatever you want.”
Charley had already lost her appetite, but she ordered the hummus to make him happy, along with her favorite lunch platter and some baklava she’d take home for Sasha. Second only to making her feel like a child, Rudy’s favorite hobby was picking up the check—the bigger the better.
They never talked about money, but despite the fact that her job didn’t exactly offer a salary and benefits, and most of her father’s liquid assets were stashed in offshore accounts she couldn’t access, the $5,000 monthly maintenance fee on her father’s penthouse always got paid, the lights stayed on, and no matter how often she charged up the credit card, Charley never once saw a bill.
