Finding Denver (The Luxe Universe #2)

Prologue

COLT

They call me Ghost because that’s what I am.

A soul. A phantom. An apparition.

I’ve been doing this job for eighteen years, and for half of that, I’ve worked in the shadows. I’ve killed in them, too, but it meant I could walk down the street and no one would know my face.

I became a ghost because the anonymity gave me and my family peace.

But before I became Ghost, I was Colt Harland.

Growing up, we had enough. Our cupboards were never empty, and our Christmases were twinkling lights and ribbon wrapped gifts, but I saw the life others had and wanted it.

I saw the cars parked outside the nicest hotels in the city, the designer suits and Rolexes sported by men that I knew would one day fear to speak my name.

I wanted that life—their life—and I wanted it fast, so I inserted myself into a world my mother begged me to avoid.

I started delivering packages when I was fourteen, ones that would’ve landed me in juvie if I’d been caught. By eighteen, I was collecting heads instead of boxes. By nineteen, the man who employed me had handed me his empire because he knew what I’d do if he didn’t.

I took what he had, and I made it more.

I went from standing behind the seat at meetings to sitting among the most powerful men in New York.

The McEwans ruled the city, and the head of their family took me under his wing.

Soon, the Russians wanted me to return their calls.

The Italians did, too. A powerful, respectful man was what they called me.

A man willing to bend tradition where necessary.

A man to fear.

I wore my kills like badges of honor. Any opportunity to extend the pain, I did it. If they crossed me, they took days to die. If they threatened my family, their death echoed through their bloodline. My rise was quick, brutal, and lucrative. It was all that mattered to me.

Until I met Callie. A sharp-tongued brunette changed everything, and the power I’d worked so hard for became an afterthought. I wanted date nights without worry. I wanted movie days in bed. I wanted dancing in the living room and vacations without bodyguards.

Within six months we were married, and I happily stepped into obscurity.

I made sure that no evidence of Colt Harland existed outside of my physical being or the whispers on the street.

The only men who knew my face were dead or too smart to let my description pass their lips.

Besides, they understood. Given the chance, some of them would fade into darkness, too.

We may be rivals in territory and power, but we all have something in common.

Family is life.

And I made my family mine.

By the time Callie was pregnant, we could take walks without second glances in our direction. We could go on vacation, and I could trust my closest men to run things without me. I only worked if I had to.

My brother called me a fool. He said I was diluting my power. But if anything, it was the opposite. I killed without trace, appearing from the darkness to take information and blood, and then I’d vanish again.

But then, I lost everything.

A busy house became quiet. My reason to hide was torn away. Work became the only thing I had left. It is the only thing I have left.

So I’m not hiding anymore.

“It’ll change everything,” Alistair says from beside me as our drinks are placed on the table.

The server gives me a quick, pink-cheeked smile before sweeping her dark ponytail over her shoulder and heading back to the bar through the sparse, mid-week crowd.

The bar is quietly lit, and conversation is murmured, intimate.

“Coming out of the shadows after so long … people will wonder why. They’ll think you’re planning something big. A takeover, probably.”

Alistair Chase is my oldest friend. Sometimes more of a brother than my actual brother, I can rely on him for anything. He’s the smartest man I know, opting to stick to computers rather than weapons, and it’s helped us maintain a legitimate financial front.

He runs his hand through his thick, silver hair—he started graying when we were sixteen and resisted peer pressure to dye it.

Besides, that and his silver beard suit him, and anybody who comments on it is asking for the pain that follows.

Alistair may not be hired muscle, but his physique says otherwise.

I’ve seen him snap a man’s neck with very little effort.

To Alistair’s left, Anthony “Taf” Sanders—the actual hired muscle—enthusiastically nods his agreement.

He got his nickname after a girl at school once gifted him saltwater taffy every day for a week, and he admitted he still had no idea she liked him.

He’s another old friend, but a few years younger than Alistair and me.

A blond-haired, blue-eyed brute is what my mother affectionately calls him, and she’s not wrong.

And unlike Alistair’s pressed two-thousand-dollar suit, Taf is in a shirt I’m fairly sure he bought right after we left high school.

It’s faded and strained over muscles he’s grown since then, but he’s a creature of habit.

Two men I’ve known since we were boys. Since we sat around a battered kitchen table and ate good food my mom made and talked about how we’d rule the city one block at a time.

When Wilder was better than he is now, the four of us were unstoppable. Whispers told of Wilder’s temper, Alistair’s smarts, and Taf’s fists. If you caused trouble, the severity of your punishment depended on who was sent to your door.

“Let them think what they like,” I say. “And who the fuck am I taking over, exactly?”

Alistair shrugs a shoulder. “You’d be doing the Gallaghers a favor if you took over their shit show of a territory. They’ve not made a profit in six months.”

I don’t ask how he knows that.

Taf takes a swig of his beer. “We should start a hashtag. HarlandIsBackBitches or something.”

I throw him a smile. “Yeah, I’m sure the DEA would appreciate the heads up.”

“Being famous works for the Luxes,” he says.

I grunt in response.

“Speaking of. Look who just got announced as Businesswoman of the Year,” Alistair says, a smirk tilting his lips as he shows me his phone.

I take the device and scroll through the article, pausing on the photograph of Denver Luxe. It’s from a shoot she did for People Magazine a few months back. I’ve read and reread that piece on her, how she was quickly rising in the business world, putting her past behind her.

Her past? A dead husband and cop.

In the photograph, she’s sitting on the stairs of her home, elbow on her knee, chin on her hand, smiling brightly at the camera. A casual look—jeans and a T-shirt, hair down. “Behind The Deluxe,” they’d called it. A real-life glimpse into Denver Luxe.

The woman I’ll kill one day.

“Good for her,” I say, handing the phone back and returning my attention to our surroundings.

The low, melodic music of the bar isn’t familiar.

It’s been a long time since I ventured out at this hour purely for socializing.

Work? Yes. Drinks? No. This hasn’t been my kind of place since before I was married, when nights in with Callie became far more interesting than waking up with a woman whose name I’d forgotten before we’d even called a taxi.

I lean back in the maroon-leather booth, quietly scanning the crowd, when I spot a face I recognize. He’s approaching our table, and I gather from Alistair’s sigh that not much has changed when it comes to Vince Capelli.

“Not tonight, Vince. I can’t be fucked with you,” Alistair says.

Vincenzo Capelli Jr. reaches our table. He’s our age, and as close to power as a man can be without actually experiencing it.

His grandfather, Vincenzo Sr., is the oldest don in the city—not the most powerful but respected for his time in the business.

He’s of a generation that demands respect, and honestly, he deserves it, too.

The first time we met and I’d suggested our families become acquainted, he’d called me a cocky dreamer.

He still agreed to meet me a week later, though.

He’s a good man, bored of the traditions that keep us at war, eager for change.

I can’t say the same for what I’ve heard about Vince.

He throws his grandfather’s name around to get what he wants, and most are afraid to deny him anything because he’s a Capelli.

It’s a bullshit form of power, one I know his grandfather won’t appreciate him exploiting.

To put it short, Vince Capelli is a little shit, and it seems I’m about to get a front-row seat to a tantrum.

He eyeballs Alistair with disdain, and doesn’t even glance at me. “This is our table.”

“This isn’t a fucking musical,” Taf says. “Unless you want to break out into a synchronized number. What would that be called?”

“‘Our Table, Our Rules?’” Alistair offers, brows raised in amusement.

Taf looks excited. “That’s a good one.”

Vince rests his hand on the table, and I examine his fingers.

The gold ring on his pinky belonged to his father, Antonio.

A man I met once or twice, too. He didn’t die in a blaze of glory like most assume we all do; he had a heart attack while walking to his car one day.

He liked me. I liked him. He said once that he wished his kid was as switched on as me. I guess he wasn’t exaggerating.

“Move, Alistair,” Vince whispers. “Or I’ll make you move.”

“How?”

Vince’s gaze cuts to mine, brows lowered in annoyance. He grimaces as if he hadn’t even realized I’m here. “What?”

I tilt my head. “How will you make Alistair move?”

What’s interesting about this dynamic is that it’s unfolding because of the seats we’ve chosen. Alistair deals with the day-to-day of Harland Industries, so whenever he’s in public, he sits in the center. It’s a sign of protection. Of hierarchy.

The true hierarchy is that I should be in the center.

It’s pure habit that we sat this way, which has led to Vince Capelli looking at me as if I’m on the payroll, and not with the respect I deserve.

“Well, I’ll start by introducing your face to this fucking table,” Vince says to me. “How about that?”

My smile is slow, and Taf chuckles while rubbing his hands together.

“Is that so?” I ask.

Vince points his thumb in my direction. “Alistair, who the fuck is this guy? Worried about getting mugged so you drag out a newbie?”

I take my time in standing. There’s no point rushing what’s about to happen. I’ve waited eight years for it, after all. Because once Vince Capelli knows who I am, and that I’m back at the forefront, word will spread.

Vince’s gaze travels up all six foot five of me, and he’s hiding what I imagine is a sensible amount of fear. I’m broad. Strong. I like to know I can kill, carry, and bury several men in a night, so my body reflects that strength and endurance.

The height was just lucky.

But Vince seems to remember he’s a powerful man in his own right, even if that power is borrowed. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“That’s because I wouldn’t be dealing with you at all,” I say.

“I’d be dealing with your grandfather. Who I imagine, given your manners, had jack shit to do with your upbringing.

Because if Vincenzo found out you were starting fights over fucking tables”—I step forward, and Vince is forced back—“especially from me, he wouldn’t be happy about it. ”

“You?” Vince barks out a laugh, and I unbutton the cuff of my sleeve and roll it up, taking my time with one and then the other. His eyes remain fixed on my face. “My grandfather wouldn’t even know you.”

One of Vince’s men takes a noticeable step back, and he whispers two words. I don’t know much Italian, but I know what he says.

Il fantasma.

Ghost.

Vince’s gaze drops to my forearms, to the tattoos of a veil of shadows that wrap around my skin like inked silk.

Beneath that silk, skulls push through the material, hands grappling for one last chance of survival, mouths open in a desperate final scream.

It’s not the first piece of art I got, but it’s the one that people know me by.

One I’ve had to keep covered for almost a decade.

Vince’s brown eyes dart between my face and my arms. “You’re not him. You’re a wannabe.”

“Am I?”

But now, he’s not so sure. So he does what few would do when a phantom appears before them—he fights back. An interesting choice, but one I can almost respect.

His fingers have barely grazed his gun when I seize the back of his neck and do to him what he promised to do to Alistair.

Vince’s nose cracks when it meets the table, and his men rush to action, but I don’t need to cast a glance in their direction.

Alistair and Taf have their guns drawn, and the bar has fallen quiet.

I squeeze Vince’s neck, keeping his face pressed into the table.

“Had this been another day, Vince, I would have let it go,” I say as he struggles against my hold, his sweat dampening my palm. “But this is my opening night.”

He huffs, spittle coating his lips. “My grandfather—”

“Your grandfather will get a call from me in thirty minutes apologizing for breaking two of his grandson’s bones.

I haven’t decided which bones yet, so give me a minute on that,” I say.

“And he can accept my apology, or not, but something tells me he will. In fact, given your attitude and general disrespect to other families, I think he might thank me for putting your ass in line. Now.” I lean close. “Let’s break some bones, shall we?”

Thirty minutes later, Vince’s men are taking him to the hospital, and I ready myself to make a phone call to Vincenzo Capelli Sr. I stand in the alley beside the bar, breathing in the cool air. Fall is close. It’s almost a year since my brother shot up a wedding and changed the course of our lives.

The thudding of my heart slows, the anger I’d contained to my fists ebbing away.

I’m stepping out of the shadows.

To go to war with Denver Luxe.