Chapter 6
COLE
This is a terrible time to be slipping out the front door of my house.
I don’t care that it’s five in the morning. I never get more than four hours of sleep a night.
But Kate half-woke when I edged out of bed, rolling toward my pillow and reaching for the warm spot I left behind.
A frown creased the space between her fawn-colored eyebrows, and she murmured something that could have been English, could have been Irish, or maybe it was just the private language of her dreams.
I wanted to smooth her hair and feather a kiss on her temple. I wanted to sit on the edge of the bed and whisper that I love her, tell her the truth again while she’s sleeping, so she wouldn’t feel trapped, wouldn’t have to worry.
I had to leave, though. Married or not, I have to run Lone Wolf Enterprises. Kate will wait until I return.
At the gate, I check the mirrors, verifying no one is lurking on the street. Because that’s another reason this is a bad time to leave: Tarasov has already worked his way past the gate once.
But I have plans to keep the bratva brigadier at bay. And in the meantime, Nilsson is an expert marksman. I’ve leaned on the DC police to circle by the house every couple of hours.
So once I’m certain no one’s waiting on the sidewalk, I trigger the Jaguar’s bespoke electronics. The iron gate slides open. I wait until it’s safely closed behind me before I continue down the street.
Georgetown is still quiet this early in the day.
Once I get out of the city, my foot is heavy on the accelerator.
I’m driving almost due east, against the lawyers and lobbyists flooding into town for another day of work.
Over the road’s steady hum, I replay Kate’s arguments after dinner: Megan is at risk. Tarasov will use her again.
But Megan knew the danger before she ever approached that bratva bully with the Lonely Hearts game that backfired on her. My sister is the shrewdest con artist I know, better even than the animal who raised us. She measures risk and reward to the fucking millimeter.
Her actions have consequences. Now I have to work for the Russian fuck.
If that was all Tarasov demanded, I could look the other way. Megan has hurt me before. I’m a big boy. I can take it.
But this time, I wasn’t the only one who came out bruised. Megan’s actions hurt my wife. And I won’t tolerate that.
Ever.
The drive to Dover, Delaware should take two hours, but I make it in an hour and a half.
Trap Prince waits on the tarmac at Dover’s private airfield.
The owner of Diamond Freeport hosts these monthly get-togethers for a dozen of his top clients, the so-called Diamond Ring.
We never know what he has planned; we just show up to the appointed place at the appointed time, wearing the appointed clothes.
Today’s invitation said, “western wear—denim, etc.” For me that means the same as nearly every other day: Black jeans and matching T-shirt.
“Trap,” I say by way of greeting, offering him a nod. The man will shake hands if he has to, but I know he prefers not. I can respect the quirks of a business partner who has made me millions.
“Cole,” he says, jutting his chin toward a canvas pavilion. “Make yourself at home. Wheels up at nine.”
I find half a dozen of my fellow billionaires gathered around a few high tables.
An eager young waiter offers to fetch my drink of choice, but the chef is especially pleased with this morning’s tamarind turmeric jamu, which offers excellent anti-inflammatory, antioxidant, antiseptic, and immune-boosting benefits. I ask for a black coffee.
I join the group gathered around the nearest table. The chef—apparently taking a break from his industrial-strength juicer—has also laid out a spread of bagels, half a dozen cheeses, herb-infused butters, and three different types of smoked fish.
I opt for an apricot from a silver bowl.
It’s as big as my fist and perfectly ripe.
I’ll hold off on more serious food until I learn our destination.
Past Diamond Ring meetings have included motorcycle races and downhill skiing.
I’m competitive enough to refrain from heavy eating until I know what else the day will bring.
Gage Rider, though, is gesturing with half an everything bagel slathered with cream cheese, lox, and capers. He’s talking about last night’s hockey game between Boston and New York, which apparently featured a seven-minute brawl at center ice. Rider doesn’t think much of someone’s left jab.
He should know. He skated professionally for years, before deciding his third concussion would be his last. Now he owns his old team, the Atlantic City Aces, along with several square blocks of Manhattan real estate and a sex club in Brooklyn. I’ve heard about Kynk, but I’ve never visited.
Rider demonstrates proper fighting form, pulling his own punch a half-inch shy of Carl Braxton’s jaw. The international arms dealer doesn’t flinch, although he looks like he has a drone or two he’d like to bring into the match. Rider laughs and goes back to his bagel, downing a gigantic bite.
“Boys,” comes a smooth contralto voice from behind me. “You don’t want to miss your chance at an omelet.”
Fiona Moran sidles up to the table, balancing a glass of shockingly bright orange-color juice, a cloth napkin rolled with silverware, and a plate filled with the largest omelet I’ve ever seen.
She takes a massive bite of eggs, apparently oblivious to the effect she has on half a dozen grown men as her tongue loops around a strand of melted cheese.
She’s followed the dress code from the invitation.
Her jeans are dark blue denim, tight enough to look sewn on.
She’s wearing a yoked emerald-green shirt, cut like a man’s but with ample room for the cleavage she displays like a weapon.
Her feet are encased in tooled leather boots with heels higher than any self-respecting cowgirl would ever dare wear.
The table clears as my fellow billionaires head over to get their own omelets. I salute Fiona with my coffee, saying, “Howdy, partner.”
“Don’t howdy partner me.”
My stomach sinks. As queen of Boston’s Irish mob, Fiona hired Lone Wolf to keep her accounts up and running. But she’s already rejected two of my employees, and from the tone of her voice, she’s about to let another one go.
“There’s a problem?” I ask coolly, because I’d rather confront an issue head-on than let it fester.
“Chuck Bertolli,” she says. “He’s my problem. Or rather, he’s your problem.”
“He’s one of my best employees,” I say. “When I needed to upgrade my own accounts payable, I had him—”
“He stares at my tits instead of my computer screen.”
“I—” I wasn’t expecting that.
I’m the one who taught Fiona how to negotiate, undermining my personal interests when she needed to sell a painting—the Picasso that hangs in my living room—very quickly. I even took her personal marker when she didn’t have the cash to close a related deal.
Of course, I know why I’ve bent my rules for Fiona. She’s a version of my sister—tough, smart, damaged—but Fiona Moran has learned from all her mistakes. Megan just keeps dragging her disasters to my doorstep.
Fiona’s eyeing me now, her lips twisted into a tiny smirk. She knows she caught me off-guard. I say, “I’ll talk to him.”
“I’ve already done that. Three times. He’s out.”
The customer’s always right. “I’ll have someone else assigned to your account by Monday.”
“Thank you,” she says, helping herself to another massive bite of eggs. I’ve watched her eat her weight at plenty of meals; there’s no reason she should make an exception for breakfast. She eyes my untouched apricot with an interest that’s close to indecent.
“You’re welcome,” I say, passing her the fruit. I’m not hungry anyway.
While Fiona’s been trimming my workforce, other members of the Diamond Ring have filtered into the tent.
Roger Turner is telling the sort of off-color joke I stopped laughing at in middle school.
Braiden Kelly and Connor Boyle—captains of the Irish mob in Philadelphia and New York respectively—look like they’re plotting to take over the entire Atlantic seaboard.
Braxton, the international arms dealer, stands next to Steve Torrington, an insurance tycoon, both of them taking advantage of the open bar to spike their Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee.
“Let’s go, motherfuckers!” Prince calls from the entrance to the tent. He always has a way with words. “Time and tide and all that goddamn shit.”
We tumble out of the tent like half-trained puppies.
Every person here could buy a small nation, if so inclined. Together, we make more business decisions before noon than the average CEO makes in a month. We play hard, and we know how to reward ourselves when we’ve won a game, set, or match.
But there’s a little kid inside all of us. We love surprises. And with our wealth and privilege, it can be damn near impossible to deliver a true bombshell.
The betting begins as we climb the stairs to Prince’s extravagant jet. Gage Rider suggests we’re heading to a rodeo, somewhere in Texas. Arsene Dubois, owner of a chain of premium international hotels, guesses we’re going to a dude ranch. Roger Turner hopes we’re heading to a Nevada whorehouse.
Trap won’t say. He just tells us we have two and a half hours before we touch down. Speculation rises faster than the jet as we leave Dover behind.
There’s another open bar onboard the plane. That means we won’t be driving at our final destination—or riding horses either. White-water rafting is out, and I suspect fly-fishing is tabled as well.
Turner is still campaigning for that whorehouse—which is either wishful thinking or a very poor grasp of US geography, given the promised flight time. Probably both.
Helping myself to a soda water with lime, I search out the one member of the Diamond Ring I most want to do business with today.