Chapter 45
Noah
“Do you want him in a bag?” Dante’s voice booms through the car speakers as I press the accelerator on the fastest car in my garage.
“Tempting but no,” I reply through gritted teeth. “I want the dirt spread so wide and far, he’ll never be able to walk on the street without being recognized.”
“Got it. What did he do?”
“Hurt my girl when she was seventeen.”
A pause. “Are you sure you don’t want him in a bag?”
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. I want to rearrange his face myself, but if Dante puts him in a bag, I’ll be on the suspect’s list, which would prevent me from being with Bea and taking care of Mom.
“I’m sure,” I grit out.
“Can I at least have a go at him?”
“After I’m done with him.”
“Got it. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thanks, Masters.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he laughs. “You’ll owe me a favor, and my wife wants a house built by you. And what Flora wants, she gets. She’s a menace though, I warn you.”
I chuckle. “I’ll build her a palace from seashells with my own hands if it gets you to help me on this.”
I park in front of the main building of the golf club. No one but the staff is here so far. I called Tori earlier and asked her to book me a flight to Bora Bora, and I have eight hours before I have to depart. So this asshole Larry had better hurry up.
Two hours pass while I wait, and it’s filled with information Dante sends my way. Videos of the asshole’s speech, accepting a reward he didn’t deserve with promises he’ll never keep. I’m so engrossed in my research that I miss the moment when people start arriving, so I head inside.
The clubhouse smells like lemon oil, cigar smoke, and entitlement. Something Mom fought hard for us to avoid.
The morning staff glance up, recognize the suit and the face, and decide their paycheck isn’t worth slowing me down. I stride past framed photos of men congratulating themselves for breathing near grass and head for the locker rooms.
“Sir, do you have an invitation?” a kid in a polo starts.
“I do,” I say without stopping, and he decides silence is the best career move. Smart people work here.
I find my target by the sound of his voice first—loud and relaxed, the lazy cadence of a man who’s never met a boundary he didn’t bulldoze.
Larry Commerford stands in front of a mirror, adjusting his tie and smiling at his reflection.
Scarce chin, too-white teeth, the performative tan that stops at the hairline.
Late forties going on immobile forehead.
“King,” he booms at my reflection in the mirror when our eyes meet, as if we’re old pals. He’s the kind of man who mistakes every approach for admiration. “I’ve heard about you. Your brother, of course. Your philanthropic pivot. Commendable. I think we have something to discuss if you don’t mind.”
“Larry,” I say, ignoring his smooth speech. “Do you remember Beatrice Wrong?”
He smiles the way men smile at appetizers.
“Beatrice. Dear Bea. Of course I do. Her parents were eager to marry her off. Pretty little thing. Yes. Our families had the right idea about that pairing. A shame she was so—” He flicks his fingers in the air, searching for a word.
“—skittish. But I’ve heard she’s grown now, so that might change.
” He licks his lips, and I feel anger boiling under my skin.
My knuckles go cold because I squeeze my fists too tight.
“You cornered a seventeen-year-old in the dark hallway of a fundraiser and put your hands on her,” I start, “and you laughed when she said no.”
His gaze barely flickers. He adjusts his cuff, not even pretending to look remorseful. “Young girls misread attention. She was flattered. Skittish, like I said. It happens.”
The locker room goes fuzzy at the edges. “You touched a child.”
He smiles at himself in the mirror instead of me. “I guided a debutante through a corridor, King. Let’s not get hysterical.”
I don’t remember crossing the space, just the feel of his collar in my fist and the satisfying crack of his back hitting the lockers. The metal sings. A couple of men at the sinks freeze. Larry makes a noise like a cough that’s really his breath failing.
“Guided?” My voice comes out low enough that his pupils widen. “You pinned a seventeen-year-old to a wall in the dark and put your hand up her dress. You don’t get to rename that.”
He tries to peel my fingers off, shocked to find his meaty forearms aren’t getting him anywhere. “You need to let go.”
“I need you to listen.” I lean in, letting him feel the threat closer.
“She’s mine to protect now. Not my property—my responsibility.
There’s a difference, but it won’t matter to you.
Here’s what will: if you so much as say her name in a room again, I will dismantle your life in ways you don’t even have language for.
This isn’t a threat. It’s a forecast of the shitty weather coming for you. ”
He snorts, but his pulse stutters in his throat.
“Security,” he says, trying for bored, but it comes out thin. “You’re having a moment. Step back.”
I release him enough for air but not enough for the illusion of freedom.
“Here’s today’s menu. Option one: you resign from whatever little exploratory committee you’re sampling, issue a public statement about spending more time with your family, donate a very ugly amount to the Newside project, and vanish yourself from any function my girl might ever be within a borough of.
Option two: I open the folder I already have compiled on my phone, and Masters hands it to three reporters who hate you more than Hitler. ”
He attempts a laugh. It’s squeaky. “You don’t scare me.”
I smile the same smile I use on lenders who hope to see me bloody. “You know Dante Masters and who he works for, I believe?”
That lands. His eyes twitch, and his demeanor loses the previous confidence.
“Three women, seven years, two NDAs, and a club camera you forgot existed. We can argue consent in the court of public opinion all you want. You’ll still be a headline with a face people spit at.”
He goes for bluster. “You assault me, King, and I’ll—”
I hit him once, and it’s surgical. Knuckles to his nose, which collapses with a dull crunch and he yelps, staggering back into the locker with a metallic wail. Blood blossoms, bright and righteous, calming the rage inside me a little.
The room holds its breath. A towel hits the tile near my shoe, and I don’t step back.
I breathe once. Twice. I want to do more damage, but Beatrice wouldn’t want it. She’s kind and loyal and supportive. I will be better for her. I can’t walk back to violence.
“Security,” he bleats again with a hand pressed to his nose as blood seeps through his fingers. “Assault—he assaulted me—”
“Correction,” I say evenly. “I stopped you from doing more damage to yourself, didn’t I?” So many semantics.
Two khaki-clad clubhouse guards appear in the doorway, unsure if their polo shirts include hazard pay when their eyes flit my way. Larry points at me and coughs blood onto his own loafers.
“He slipped,” I tell them calmly, nodding at the floor that is very much not wet. “Get him some ice. Then get him a phone. He has three calls to make.”
“Sir, we should—uh—” one guard starts.
I take my wallet out slowly and slide my business card across the bench with the kind of smile that makes banks surrender entire floors—I learned that from Ezra. “Call if anyone gives you grief about the mess.”
Larry’s eyes are water-bright with humiliation and rage. “You’re finished,” he spits.
“That the line you practice in the mirror?” I ask.
“Here are your three calls. One—to your PR firm. Effective noon, you’re suspending all exploratory activity to ‘focus on personal matters.’ Two—to the Newside project.
You’re wiring a seven-figure donation by the end of the business day with no speech.
Three—to Masters. You’ll tell him you’re very sorry for wasting his time and will be a very quiet citizen from now on. ”
He tries to laugh and it comes out wet. “You can’t force me—”
“I can’t?” I say, and my calm scares him more than my fist. “Just like you can’t force women? Make the calls. Or I make one of my own.”
The security guards hover like nervous flamingos. Larry’s phone trembles in his bloody hand. He dials. He stammers. He says the words I tell him to say, and he says them fast because he can smell the end of my patience.
When the third call ends, he slumps onto the bench and glares at me through swollen eyes.
“If you come near her again,” I say, very slowly and very quietly, “if you come near her family whatever that might be, if you even breathe on a guest list with her name on it, I will stop asking nicely.” I tilt my head. “Blink if you understand.”
He blinks. Twice. Good man.
I leave him there covered in blood and surrounded by wide-eyed security and step back into the lemon-polished hallway. My phone buzzes before I hit the door.
Masters:
He’ll pull out from the campaign. PR already drafting. Donation paperwork incoming. You still owe me shells and a kitchen my wife can dance in naked.
I’ll build her a ballroom that will make angels weep.
I want tears and cove lighting.
I grin without humor and push outside. The air is crisp and bright. I make one more call because I’m greedy for violence today.
“Mrs. Wrong,” I say when her assistant puts me through. My pleasant voice sends even me into a sugar coma. “How are you this morning?”
I can hear ice clink in a glass before she answers. “Noah King. To what do I owe this surprise?”
“For a correction,” I say, still smooth. “I heard you placed a call to your daughter Maeve. Golf thing. ‘United front.’ You also requested Beatrice’s attendance. For Larry.” I can’t keep it up; my voice drops to a dangerous octave at the mention of his name.
A tiny pause before her voice turns firmer. “We lead busy lives, dear. Sometimes messages get muddled. It’s only a social outing.”
“Right,” I hum. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to delete Bea’s name from any guest list you marshal. You’ll stop trying to barter her off for your recognition. You’ll also refrain from contacting her about appearances, alliances, or your personal PR. She’s not your currency.”
“You must be joking,” she says, dropping her voice to ice. “You have no standing here.”
“I have standing everywhere,” I say simply.
“And I’m done being polite. Keep pressing, and I pull your family trust’s filings for the last ten years and drop them in the laps of three forensic accountants who love dissecting shell companies for dessert.
I reroute event catering and cut your donor lines at every gala you attend.
I’m not bluffing, Mrs. Wrong. I have time and a rage problem. Tell your husband I said hello.”
“Are you threatening me? We will pull our shares back! Say goodbye to your company.”
“Good luck with that. I will make sure I call a certain society we both know to release the dirt they’ve collected on you. I go to the same club with one of their founding members—Dante Masters. Have you heard of him?”
Her heavy breathing is my answer. High New York society can do a lot, but what they can’t do is step on the feet of a different society, one that prefers to stay underground, and I’m a lucky bastard who became friends with one of its members.
Her silence on the other end curdles. I don’t fill it. I let the threat breathe between us until she tastes it.
“We’ll be in touch,” she says frostily.
“No, you won’t,” I reply, and hang up before she can wind herself into another presidential speech.
When I get into my car, my phone buzzes again. Masters with a celebratory skull emoji and a photo of Larry holding ice to his face. I have no idea how he got the picture so fast and prefer not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I pocket the phone and gun the car.
I planned on stopping by Mom’s place, but I don’t think I’ll make it back to the airport in this traffic. So I dial her number.
“Hi, Mom, I’ll be gone for a few days. Aide’s on the way. Ezra has keys. Schedule’s on the fridge.” I’m talking too fast, and she laughs back.
“Don’t be a jerk when you apologize.”
I clear my throat. “How do you know—?”
“That you are going after that girl or that you’ll end up saying something offensive to her?”
“Both, I guess.” I chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck.
“We both know the answer to that.” Her laughter is light and genuine, a sound I don’t hear very often. “I like that girl. I think she’s very good for you.”
“She is, Mom.”
“Then go get her.”
I’m sitting in the middle seat on a three-rower at the back of the plane, and I’ve never been happier. I also don’t think I’ve ever flown economy before, but no lack of space for knees nor the onion-breathing neighbor to my right can dampen my cheerful mood.
Because I’m on my way to get my girl back.