Boardroom Ties (Boardroom Billionaires #3)

1. Cass

CASS

I came to this bar for one reason and one reason only:

To find someone who will help me kill my husband.

It’s been a long road to get here. I mean that literally, in the sense that this dark, grimy, greasy-looking bar is an hour across town from the Park Slope penthouse I’ve shared with the man of my nightmares for the last four years.

I also mean it figuratively, in the sense that it’s been, y’know, four fucking years. Do you know how many sleepless nights four years can hold?

“A lot,” is the short answer.

So.

Fucking.

Many.

Endless, horrible hours of staring at the ceiling fan revolving overhead while the pear-shaped, patriarchal prick I call “husband” snores next to me like the feral wildebeest he is.

Hours spent reminiscing on how I got here, what he’s done to me, and what I am going to do to him when the time comes.

Now, tonight, the time has finally come.

I flip the visor down and check my face in the mirror. My hair is good to go. Lipstick, too. The bruise that Raymond left along my left cheekbone is hidden under two thick layers of concealer and setting powder. You’d never know it was there unless you knew where to look.

I snap the visor back up. “Okay, Cass,” I say to myself. “You can do this. You’re just a girl, standing in front of a bar full of Russian criminals, asking them to commit a felony. What’s the big deal?”

I grab my bag and get out of the car.

The thing is, I wasn’t supposed to need help.

Three days ago, I had it all ready to go.

Raymond’s allergy medication was swapped out for the cyanide pills I’d purchased with Bitcoin off the Dark Web.

It was a simple plan. Clean and un-fuck-up-able.

I’d done my research to make sure it would all go the way I wanted it to go: with Raymond gurgling and foaming at the mouth on our terrazzo kitchen floor as I stood over him and snarled, This is what you get for your sins, motherfucker.

It was one of those images I’d come back to again and again on those sleepless nights. Usually, it made me smile.

But when the moment finally came, I panicked. He was sitting at the breakfast table reading the Financial Times and eating a soft-boiled egg, little bits of yellow yolk stuck to his mustache, and I just… I couldn’t.

I froze up. I failed. I switched the pills back while he was in the shower.

Four years of planning, gone, just like that.

You learn a lot about yourself when you plot to murder someone. Like, you learn whether or not you’re capable of it.

I, as it turns out, am not.

But I’m not giving up.

This just means I need help.

How does one find help to commit the cold-blooded murder of one of New York’s wealthiest and most prominent defense attorneys? I had the same question. Neither Yelp nor the Yellow Pages were of any use whatsoever. So weird that there’s no “Hitman” section under the H’s. They really oughta fix that.

But then I found something. A lead. A way in.

It took me two months of late night Googling on a burner laptop I bought at a pawn shop in Queens, and I had to wade through some very unsavory websites to get here.

But here I am. I’ve got fifty grand in cash in my purse and one very simple request for one very lucky fellow: help me kill the man who killed my sister.

Pretty simple, right?

Some places have a palpable dark energy about them. This is absolutely one of those places.

I’d call it a “filthy rat’s nest,” but I think that’s doing a disservice to filth, rats, and nests.

The floor is sticky and the lighting is practically nonexistent.

Mayor Bloomberg banned smoking in restaurants more than two decades ago, but none of the patrons in here seem to have much respect for New York City bylaws, because damn near every one of them has either a cigarette or a vape smoldering between their thick, tattooed fingers.

One hard-working guy is actually smoking both at the same time.

Thudding heavy metal music weaves through the clack of pool balls echoing from the back and the low mutter of conversations that probably aren’t of the legal variety.

I sit down at the bar and put my purse on the stool next to me. “Vodka martini,” I announce. “Extremely fucking dirty.”

The bartender glances at me, then frowns. He’s got a thick neck and a shaved head. I don’t think the rag he’s using to polish the counter top has ever even heard of the word “soap.” It looks like a taxidermic mouse.

“You lost, hon?” he drawls. “This isn’t really a place for…”

He trails off as he looks me up and down.

I know what he’s seeing and what he thinks of it.

Hell, I probably think the same thing about myself.

Cashmere coat, Brazilian blowout, the Cartier watch, which I’m just now realizing I should’ve left in the car…

It all adds up to, This rich bitch. She must have a goddamn death wish.

He’s right. I do.

But I’m not the one it’s for.

“For girls like you,” he finishes.

I grit my teeth. I knew this moment would come. It was never going to be easy, this sordid little mission of mine. I’ve been alive as a woman in this world for almost thirty years now, and I know as well as anyone that men have only ever existed to make our lives more difficult, not less.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I’m on some feminist kick here. I don’t give a damn about smashing glass ceilings. I’d just like to not be condescended to by a thick-necked gargoyle who doesn’t know one tiny little bit about all the horrors I’ve gone through to get here.

The blood I’ve seen.

The bodies I’ve buried.

The other thing I know about men is that they can smell weakness—and they will never, ever respect it.

Raymond has been that way from the start.

Sure, he pretended he was sweet at first, back in our courting days.

He held car doors and brought me flowers.

One memorable evening, he even pulled out my chair.

But the chivalrous act didn’t last long.

Soon, the noose around my neck tightened, and tightened, and tightened some more.

Raymond Snyder is not a gentleman; he’s a fucking demon.

If I didn’t enter this marriage with the sole intent of exacting revenge for what he did to Giana, I’d have been stunned by the abrupt and horrible turnaround.

I know what he is, though. I’ve known from the fucking day I met him.

“That’s sweet,” I say to the bartender with a simpering smile. Then I turn it into a scowl. “Now, piss off and pour my damn drink.”

The bartender’s unibrow rises up half an inch on his forehead. I don’t think people who look like me talk to people who look like him very often. For a second, I wonder if I’m about to get thrown out of this place before I even get anywhere close to achieving what I came for.

Then, to my pleasant surprise, he shrugs and turns around to start fixing my drink.

While I wait, I peer around. There seems to be an unspoken rule in here not to look any strangers in the eye.

I can feel gazes on me, burning hot in the back of my neck, but whenever I sweep my attention around, no one is looking back.

They sit in clusters, brimming with tattoos and B.O.

, murmuring back and forth, and occasionally breaking out into brays of rough laughter that sound like backfiring cement mixers.

Then I notice the man in the corner booth.

He’s alone, oddly enough. Everyone else in here seems to travel in packs, but this guy is by himself, half-hidden behind a curtain of smoke.

He doesn’t fit in here. Not like the other guys do. His clothes are too good. Black shirt, black suit jacket, with not a wrinkle on either one.

His face doesn’t fit, either. He has a clean jaw with black stubble, well-groomed. That’s night and day from the other hairy half-werewolves drinking here tonight. His hair is as dark as his clothes. His eyes are blue enough to glow, even through the crowded, smoky room.

From what I can make out through the haze, he’s— Well, I have to say he’s beautiful. That’s just a fact. It’s a face that would stand out anywhere, but especially here, in this pit.

But something about him makes my stomach go tight.

I don’t know why. He’s not doing anything threatening. He’s just sitting there, rotating his whiskey glass slowly on the table with one hand. He still hasn’t looked up once. He seems bored, if anything.

Still. There’s something there. I can’t put my finger on it.

The bartender plunks my martini down in front of me. I swallow the sudden tang of fear in my mouth and rip my eyes away from the man in the corner.

He is bad news. Best to steer clear.

Maybe we’ll start tonight’s hunt a little bit closer. Three seats down, there’s a guy built like a refrigerator. He’s got neck tattoos galore and a nose so mushed and crooked from repeated breaks that it looks more like a sock full of marbles that’s been stapled to the center of his face.

He’s perfect.

I lean over toward him and tap a nail on the sweaty wooden bar. “Hi,” I say. I give him a bright smile. “I’m Cass. Do you come here a lot?”

He takes a sip and sets the glass down. “Not interested, lady. I’m flat broke.”

When I realize what he’s implying—that I’m, shall we phrase it delicately, a woman of the night, offering up her paid services — I recoil. “Oh, no. I’m not— I’m not doing that.”

He looks irritated. “Then what are you doing?”

“I just want to talk.”

“About what.”

“Business.”

He looks at me again. Longer this time. His eyes do the same trek the bartender’s did: coat, watch, nails. And, just like the bartender did, he frowns. “I thought you just said you weren’t doing that.”

“I’m not! Not that kind of business. I’m…

Jesus Christ, the forums made it seem like this would be so much easier.

” I rub a knuckle in my eye, then clear my throat and start over.

“Look, I have a business proposition. A real one. Not a… not a hooker-y one. Nothing against those who do. I mean, sex work is work, and they deserve the same rights and protections as— Alright, I’m getting off-topic.

Point is, I’m looking to hire someone. I can pay you very well. ”

Mr. Refrigerator looks at me for a long moment.

Then he snorts. “You’re a moron,” he states.

Real smooth-talker, this one.

“I, uh… Pardon me?”

“You walk in here, looking like that, talking like that, asking strangers for… Shit, lady. You don’t even know what you’re asking for.” He picks up his drink and stands. “Go home. Before someone here takes your money and gives you nothing back but a problem.”

Then he thumps away. That’s it. Conversation over.

Unfortunately for me, he’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought I could just waltz in here and flash some cash and some lucky fellow would jump at the opportunity. That’s how it works in the movies, right?

But this isn’t a movie. This is a real bar full of real criminals who think I’m either a cop, a prostitute, or a moron. Possibly all three.

I take a sip of my martini. Good God, it’s terrible.

Maybe I should just leave. Was this a bad idea?

It was almost certainly not a good one. And yet User @AskingForAFriend on the How to Get Away with Murder forum swore that this bar, Khaza , was the place to come in New York City if you’re looking for a hired killer.

From the way he or she described it, I thought it would basically be like a homicidal vending machine. You just stroll up, punch in the number, and presto, you’d have your own little assassin, ready to rock ‘n’ roll.

Not so, it seems.

So yeah. I should go. The cyanide pills will still work, if I can just find the cojones to actually go through with it. I take a deep breath.

But as I do, I remind myself of the one thing that matters:

Giana.

I remember standing over her casket. We’d kept it closed, because the mortician had had the damndest time fixing the crater in her skull. It just won’t sit right, he explained to us apologetically. Did the best I could, but, well… Some things ain’t fixable.

So instead of getting to say goodbye to Gigi, instead of getting to kiss her forehead one last time and smooth the curly flyaways out of her face, I had only this to look at: smooth, lacquered wood. As impersonal as it gets.

She was right there, just on the other side of it, but an inch of pine might as well have been a mile of concrete, because I wasn’t getting any closer. She was just there, so very close and yet so very far away.

The mortician was right: Some things just aren’t fixable.

I can’t bring my sister back from the dead.

But I can damn sure take the man who killed her and send him to hell where he belongs.

I loop my purse over my shoulder, stand, and start to stride toward the door. I’m reaching out for the handle— so very close, and yet so very far away— when a hand encircles my wrist and a deep, smoky voice stops me in my tracks.

“Leaving so soon?”

I turn around to see the beautiful man from the corner, the one with the dark stubble and darker hair and eyes that are bluer than blue.

“Y-yeah,” I mumble through a tongue that suddenly doesn’t want to work right.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think you are.”