Wicked Fortune (The Sinclair Brothers #2)

Chapter One

Magnus

B ushwick, Brooklyn. A mishmash of gentrification, eyesores and warehouses, and ghetto.

I lean back in the leather chair in my Battery Park office. It’s away from the flash and glitter of other parts of Manhattan, which suits me fine.

I don’t give a fuck about that. Just like I don’t give a fuck about the letter in front of me, hand delivered by Jenson, my father’s attorney. Talk about posthumous posturing from the old man.

Still…

I’ve been waiting for this envelope with its thick cream paper, my name handwritten in strong penmanship, ever since my brother Hudson got his letter. And then got his inheritance. The woman he married is pretty and unexpectedly perfect for him. But that life doesn’t interest me.

Fucking who I want to fuck, and when I want to, suits me down to the ground. And money. I like money. I have more than enough of that—my inheritance and the billions I’ve earned. However, my own fortune made by my hands and my very unerring ambition to rule the real estate development world in this cutthroat city is what pumps my blood and drives me. No tease from a dead man about trinkets supposedly lost to the past and legend will take me from my path.

I’m making my own fortune my way. I’m making my own mark on the landscape and my plans are big. There’s no room for a dead man’s last gasp for control from beyond the grave.

Look at what my brother needed to do.

Hudson had to find love, and he claims he found it with Scarlett, his bride. Jesus, they’ve only known each other a few months and I can’t think of anything worse than being shackled to some woman for the rest of your life. Or ever.

We were brought up on tales of our inheritance. Not the monetary one, but the legend of jewels that have been nothing more than rumor my entire life. And they can stay that way. Sinclair real estate, what the family money was built on, is just fine and it can keep being fine. I’ve shares, we all do, but I’m no lackey. I don’t jump when told to and I don’t give a shit about sparkling jewels or getting fucking married.

I have bigger, better fish to fry.

Like my Bushwick project.

Pushing the letter to one side, I stare at the plans in front of me.

One ugly block in Bushwick I’m buying for a steal.

It’s my biggest project, my most ambitious.

This baby is my real vision, what I’ve been working toward for years, and something new. Not only housing, but a whole living, breathing city of its own. A city within a city, if you will.

It’s going to put me on the map as the biggest developer on the Eastern seaboard. My billions mean nothing without the power, the clout. Without carving my own name into the skin of New York.

This one ugly block is key. The location is perfection. Far enough from Manhattan and the enclaves of affluent Brooklyn. The block is close to transportation, and once it blooms, the entire area which I’ve been buying up will have people clawing to get their hands on the surrounds as well as a piece of history in the making.

The whole area will change. And I’ll be behind it all.

My fortune will skyrocket. My name synonymous with the future of real estate development.

I’m taking the eyesore block and turning it into a luxury oasis of a city. A place with high end dwellings, offices, stores. Private parks that rise into the sky. Leisure centers and community spaces. Open air spots and closed areas for relaxation, community, play. It will be both new and familiar, and the type of place that will change the flesh of Brooklyn forever.

This is stage one. The most important. In the future that I’ve carefully orchestrated—a ten year ambitious plan—I have two others planned here, three more in Queens, and then I’ll be hitting the Bronx. All of them are designed to fit the landscapes of the areas, and all will change them. My vision will bring me more fortune and power than I ever thought I could have before I embarked on this path.

Beyond New York? That’s in my head, too.

But Bushwick…

This one block is going to be the flagship of my new empire.

Everything is ready to begin.

Only one thing stands in my way of buying out and driving out the riff raff.

One small thing.

It’s not the Sinclair jewels, although I’m sure my piece that sits on offer comes with its own manufactured challenge from my dead father.

No. It’s something else.

Five foot two, maybe three. Female.

Inconsequential.

And yet this creature is proving more difficult to squash than I thought.

Zoey Smith.

I shouldn’t even know her fucking name.

She’s a hold out on the block. The tiny but strong roadblock I need to eliminate before I can begin.

But everyone has a price and her tiny hole-in-the-wall store can’t hold up against me or my money. Someone is sweetening the offer right this very minute. The amount on offer, the bells and whistles it comes with, is beyond what her place is worth, but getting her out of my way is worth it. Only a fool would reject my offer. And money always wins. It’s only a matter of time.

And that time is now. She’ll sign tonight, and I’ll hit the ground running tomorrow.

I’m not worried at all.

Someone knocks on the door. I look up. My mother stands there. Tall, glamorous, and impeccably dressed. I grit my teeth as she approaches across the white-washed wooden floor and comes up to my marble and steel desk in a flurry of expensive perfume.

“Magnus—”

“Now’s not the time, Mother.” I flick a glance at her, a suspicious one. I love her, but with the letter appearing, I don’t trust her. I know exactly where I get my devious streak from, and she’s in my office right now.

“I’m your mother. Make time.”

“Time’s money and I’m working.”

“You’re always working, Magnus.”

I raise a brow. “There’s always work to be done and money to be made. And I’m in the middle of something huge.”

“As always.”

I want to be annoyed by that, but it’s true. So I just fold my arms and wait. The woman’s here for something and I’ve a pretty good idea what it is.

She frowns as she rests a hip against my desk, one long, tastefully painted fingernail tapping on the letter. “You’re as driven as him.”

“My father?” I laugh softly and shake my head. “Don’t compare us.”

The sigh is soft, loaded with disappointment. “You just got the letter. The Sinclair jewels are—”

“I’m not the one who cares about them. And I haven’t, ever. That would be Ryder. He can have mine.”

“Magnus.”

I raise a hand. “Jewels are jewels, Mother. Pretty, but useless and a terrible investment.”

“It’s not always about money, Magnus,” she says quietly, looking up past me to the huge wall of windows where we can see the river and Brooklyn beyond. “This is about family.”

Part of me wants to say fuck family, but I don’t. “Don’t tell me my brothers have sent you in to convince me to get married. Hudson’s gone and done that. I’m not interested.”

“Did you read it?”

“Someone else can have my share. Again, Ryder,” I say. “We’re billionaires, and the jewels are pointless baubles.”

She shakes her head and picks up the unopened envelope. “Not pointless. History. Your history. Read the letter, Magnus. Selfish doesn’t suit you.”

“Me not wanting to be a part of this crap isn’t selfish.”

“It is when it affects your brothers.” She hesitates, then says, “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but the Sinclair family business is important to your brothers.”

I sigh, aware she’s trying to manipulate me. “Hudson told me the terms, Ma.” She winces at the term. “But I’m not playing.”

“To keep the family business is more than money, Edward Magnus Sinclair.”

My full fucking name. She likes to play hardball. Anyone who thought my father was the tough one didn’t know this woman. “What’s it to you, Faye?”

Her eyes narrow. “I remained close to your father after the divorce, and you’re my child. It matters. To lose your heritage…do you want that?”

Me? I’m building my own, but I do love my brothers, and I know what this means to them. Well, Ryder and Hudson. Even, I guess, Kingston, although with him, it’s about the monetary value and what the family name brings. Still, I know what the woman is doing. “I’m not into manipulation, and I’m not getting married to suit some bizarre whim of a dead man.”

My mother opens the letter and smooths it out. “There’s a twelve-month period. And today is the start of your four weeks to fulfill your part. If you don’t, then all of you lose your claim over the family business. Out of private and into public hands. It will be lost forever.”

Fuck. I don’t want to be the one who is the catalyst for that. But I don’t say anything, because I know she’s not finished.

“Magnus, to get your piece of the Sinclair jewels, the earrings—”

“They don’t go with my aesthetic.”

She ignores me. “You’re headstrong, driven, more than your brothers. You never seem to care about anything apart from your goals and bottom line, Magnus.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I swing my feet on my desk, tapping my fingers against my thigh. I almost say at least I’m not a cynic like Kingston, but I doubt she’d see the difference between ambition and cynicism. “Fine. I’ll get to it when I have a chance.”

My mother’s lips press together and the look she gives me makes me feel about five. “This isn’t about marrying for love like Hudson. This is proving there’s more than the hardness. More than building your fortune, which, if you ask me—”

“I don’t.”

“—you have more than enough of.”

“Noted,” I say.

“You need to prove you have heart.”

“So I’ll donate money. Put up a plaque. Adopt a fucking puppy.”

Her eyes harden at my language.

“A three-legged puppy with a sad history.”

Now her eyes narrow. “It’s more than that. You need to prove you care , Hudson, truly care, about something more than money. And you have four weeks. From your birthday.”

“Yeah, well—”

“That’s today.”

I give her a startled look. And almost laugh. I don’t know why I forgot. That’s why my brothers called earlier. I haven’t had time to call them back. I wouldn’t have taken my mother’s call, and she knows it, so that’s why she’s here in person. “Birthdays are for children.”

“Everyone, dear,” she says, her mouth quirking a little, even though the worried light remains in her eyes, dark like mine. “Not even your ruthless attitude can stop the years passing. Do this. And remember, you’ll need to prove you’ve changed.”

She stands and places the letter on the desk, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a small package. “Happy birthday.”

She leaves and I glower down at the letter. Yeah, happy fucking birthday to me.

I’ll deal with this shit later. Instead, I push the letter and the wrapped package to one side and drop my feet back to the floor. Then I grab my phone.

I need to deal with this Zoey Smith situation first, and then I’ll deal with the inheritance bullshit.

Proving I have heart. What a crock.

Still…it’s not a hard one.

Showing heart should be easy enough to fake.

Maybe I’ll kill the two birds with one perfect stone.

“Strippers?”

I glare at my grinning brother, Ryder, as he leans back in his chair in the upscale lounge deep in TiBeCa. This is totally his vibe; hot women abound. And with the photographers outside, I’m sure there’s someone stupidly famous here tonight. We’re just loaded.

But places like this make him happy and as long as there’s booze and company I actually like being around, I don’t mind it. Personally, I’d rather spend the night working, but I’m waiting on the call that my problem has taken the offer, so… here I am.

Hudson is there with his new wife, looking happier than I’ve ever seen him. They did a rush job marriage because she didn’t want some big affair and neither did he. Let our mother get her hands on something like a wedding and we’re talking months of prep and full-blown headaches.

But the Sinclair ring is on Scarlett’s finger. He’s all smiles and they’re in the fairy tale stage, the one I’ve seen friends go through—our father go through—until the shine wears off and everyone wants to get out of the marriage contract and constraints.

Except… they don’t have that look. They look blissed out. It’s sort of disgusting. I shoot Ryder a look. “No strippers, what’s wrong with you?”

“I’m thinking of you.”

“It’s tacky.”

“I’m just a philanthropist. I’m into supporting different industries. Especially female centric ones.”

I hide my smile as I take a swallow of my tequila. “You’re thinking of yourself and your dick, Ry.”

“My dick is very important. It has needs. Women love it and I love to give, as you know. But I’m talking strippers, not hookers. My dick’s not involved.”

“Fuck, you have issues.”

“I’m supporting female industry,” he says, taking a swallow of his drink and crossing his legs. “I like to watch. And I thought you might like to see a show.”

I raise a brow. “Do I look like I enjoy that kind of thing?”

“Yes. Unless you changed teams when I wasn’t looking. There are some all male shows. I’m willing to indulge your—”

“Idiot.”

A hot blonde makes eyes at Ryder and he doesn’t move, only smiles and she starts slinking over. I’m pretty fucking sure he’ll be getting his own private strip show shortly.

A hand comes down on my shoulder. “I hear you caved.”

I flick a glance up at my other brother, Kingston, who’s just arrived. He’s in a three piece suit, so whatever events went on in his business life today probably involved something important.

“Not caved, but the family business is on the table.”

Kingston sips his Scotch and takes a seat next to me. “Our father was always a manipulative bastard. We should just sell it.”

“And crush Ryder’s dreams of getting his hands on a piece of family history? No, I can do this. It’ll be easy. All I have to do is show I have heart. I’ll set up some charities, maybe swoop in and save some struggling company. I have it under control.”

I look at King. “You want to sell?”

“The family business is our heritage, but it’s a money maker, so not particularly. I just don’t like manipulation.”

“Me either. But this is nothing at all.”

Just then my phone starts to ring and I excuse myself, handing my drink to my brother and I weave through the crowd until I hit the pavement outside. I’m only having birthday drinks because Scarlett’s soft hearted and organized it with Ryder, who is always up for a good time.

I hit answer. “Yeah?”

“We got a problem, boss.”

Georgio doesn’t even have to say what it is. I already know. Five foot almost nothing of a problem. “What happened?”

“We got the last signature, as you know. It’s just this fucking girl. She owns her building. She’s struggling to make payments, but we can’t price her out. I’ve tried underhanded, I’ve tried bullying. I’ve tried to scare her with some muscle. I even offered her that sweet deal tonight.”

“Let me guess.” I lean my head back against the brick wall as the beat of the music from within cuts through the chatter around me. “She turned you down.”

“We can go for more money. Add some other things. I wanted to check with you first.”

I’m about to green light it, but I stop. Who the fuck does this girl think she is? She can’t afford to turn me down, so there’s more here, and it’s going to take a little work to find out what that is.

“No. She’s already been offered millions. This needs a different approach.”

“I’m ready, boss,” says Georgio. “Whatever you think.”

Thing is, every problem has a root cause, and that leads to the solution. I need to do this myself. This is something that requires a deft touch, possibly underhanded. I really don’t care. I just want the right results.

“I’ll handle this one, leave it to me.”

When I hang up, I close my eyes.

Everyone has a price. It’s the matter of finding it. The thing that makes them tick. A plan starts to form.

Everyone has a weak spot. A breaking point. A thing they can’t resist. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. Everyone has one.

I’m going to find this Zoey Smith’s price and weak spot. I’m going to find the thing she can’t resist.

And if I have to destroy her to do it, so be it.

It’s dark, raining, the following early morning. I look at the narrow, dusty little store on the ugly street.

From across the street, the traffic sprays up filthy water as the rain pounds down. I’m relatively dry under my umbrella.

The store is nothing. It’s shabby. A narrow piece of history that should have met the wrecker’s ball decades ago.

A light shines from beyond the dingy window proclaiming Through the Cover of a Book . Underneath, in peeling cursive script, the paint reads Magic Awaits.

I mull it over.

Others just say secondhand books. Or name it after themselves or their gran or their three-legged sad puppy. This one promises the whimsical. It promises dreams.

Zoey Smith, I’m thinking, is a dreamer. The store isn’t just a business front. I don’t believe she’s that savvy to ride on a book lover’s weak spots, although maybe she is. But I’ll be surprised. No, everything I’m looking at says dreamer. Someone who loves books. Someone for whom money isn’t front and center.

In short, an idiot.

If I walk in with my umbrella and try to sweet talk her, or reason, it’s not going to work. I recalibrate my plan a little. It’s a good one, but a little fine tuning is always a boon. It’s how I get ahead. I pay attention to details.

No one here knows who I am. I don’t have a need to come down here. More so, I have everything under Edward Sinclair, my legal name. I don’t like Edward, but it suits me to use that. Just like staying away from the limelight does. I leave that splashy bullshit to Ryder.

So she wouldn’t have heard of Magnus Sinclair. Or Magnus Simpson, as I’m going with.

The problem with Zoey Smith, who on paper is a nothing, a thorn of stubbornness in my side, is that others might follow suit if I let her win.

She’s not going to win. The woman sells books and cookies and cakes. Which is so downhome crap I can’t believe she’s lasted this long in this part of Bushwick. She’s not in hipster heaven central. She’s in the ghetto, basically.

I’m still working on the baked goods angle. She sells them and I’m not sure how legal that is. I let it slide, confident she’d crumble long before. But I make a note to up the ante on that front. On all the fronts.

And as for the Sinclair fucking game my dead father’s playing, I’m setting up some charities. Heart. I have one. It’s in my chest. Pumping blood. The sentimental interpretation is utter bullshit, but yeah, I’ll play for my brothers. And even for me, I suppose. The legacy looks good. It helps with my clout. And though I don’t need help with that, there’ll come a time when I might, so I’m interested in building all my blocks, strengthening everything I can.

There’s a small sign that’s been in her window for ages, according to my people. For a job. They’ve scared off all potentials, stolen the ones that have promise. I figured if she couldn’t find someone to fill her sign for a position offered, then it would weaken her. So far it hasn’t.

But now… now it’s perfect.

I’m going to apply.

And undermine her from within.

But I need the right approach. Whimsical name of her store. Cookies and other crap on offer along with the old books. I’ll bet she’s one of those people with a perpetually bleeding heart.

I’m not going in dry. Literally.

I collapse the umbrella and I give it to a woman hurrying by. She’s soaked, but after a quick, suspicious look, she takes the umbrella and I stand there, letting the water soak into me. Pushing my now wet hair from my face, I open the folder I have with my fake resume and I let it get soaked. Then I fold it and slide it into my jean’s pocket.

Bedraggled, harried, in need of a job. That’s me. Or the me Zoey’s going to meet.

If I’m right, she’s going to give me the job without seeing the resume.

I take a beat to get myself into my new role, and then cross the street, dodging traffic. Outside, I take a breath and then I push open the door and step inside.

I drip on the floor in the cool and fairly quiet air. Just the traffic from beyond and the low strains of some classical piano fill the empty air. There’s no one here. I frown, looking around, and from the back someone emerges.

A woman. Small, compact, with curling black hair stands there behind the counter. Her face bursts into a sunny smile.

“I’m Magnus Simpson,” I say. “I’m here about the job?”