Chapter 25
SILAS
The McCoy club sits in the warehouse district—all exposed brick and pretentious industrial lighting, the kind of place that charges fifty dollars for a cocktail and calls it atmosphere.
We’re in the back office, third floor, where McCoy conducts his real business away from the bass-thumping masses below.
Parker sits across from Devon McCoy, spine straight, hands folded on the table. Professional. Composed. Every inch the Chief Strategic Officer, even though I can see the tension in her shoulders.
McCoy is fifty-something, all silver hair and expensive cologne, the kind of man who thinks money makes him untouchable. His clubs are profitable—three venues that move significant cash while providing surveillance opportunities on targets too drunk or high to notice cameras.
But McCoy is old school. The kind who sees women as decorative. Useful only for what they can provide between the sheets or behind the bar.
I stand against the wall, close enough to intervene, far enough to let Parker handle this. Jace flanks her other side, arms crossed, monitoring everything with that tactical assessment he’s perfected.
Cal’s voice crackles in our earpieces, quiet and amused. “Security feeds are clean. No surprises. Though McCoy’s got three guards stationed outside the door. Seems excessive for a friendly check-in.”
“Noted,” Jace murmurs.
Parker’s reviewing the quarterly reports McCoy provided—profit margins, operational costs, the legitimate business that hides everything else. Her fingers trace down columns of numbers while McCoy watches with thinly veiled impatience.
“Your numbers look good,” Parker says finally. “Revenue is up twelve percent from last quarter.”
“We run a tight operation,” McCoy says. His voice carries that particular condescension men use when they’re explaining things to women they don’t respect. “My girls know how to move product. Keep customers happy. Make sure money flows in the right directions.”
My girls.
The phrase sets my teeth on edge.
“Your staff,” Parker corrects gently. “You mean your staff knows how to maintain customer satisfaction.”
McCoy’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. Staff. Though between you and me, sweetheart, the pretty ones are worth more than all the bartenders combined. Men come to my clubs for the view as much as the drinks.”
Parker’s expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t react to sweetheart or the implication that women are only for decoration. “I’m sure they come for the atmosphere. Your venues have excellent reputations for entertainment and discretion.”
“Entertainment.” McCoy leans back, spreading his arms wide. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it. Your father understood the value of beautiful women in this business. Knew how to leverage assets.”
My holstered knife suddenly feels itchy and my palms feel hot.
“My father saw people as tools,” Parker says calmly. “I prefer to see them as investments. Tools break. Investments grow.”
“Investments.” McCoy laughs—short, dismissive. “You’ve been in California too long, Ms. Carter. Out here in the real world, some people are worth more than others. And women—especially beautiful ones—have their place.”
Jace shifts beside Parker. I can feel his tension radiating across the room.
“And what place is that?” Parker asks. Her voice is still calm. Still professional. But there’s steel underneath now.
“Supporting roles, mostly.” McCoy gestures vaguely. “Hostesses. Servers. A doll to dress up and play with. Your brother is smart, bringing you in for the psychology angle, but let’s be honest—you’re here because you’re family, not because you bring real value to operations.”
The room goes very quiet.
Cal’s voice in my ear: “Oh, he did not just—”
Parker leans forward slightly. “Mr. McCoy, I appreciate your candor. So let me be equally candid. I’m not here because I’m family.
I’m here because I have a master’s degree in behavioral psychology and six years of experience in strategic marketing and perception management.
I’m here because I can read microexpressions that tell me when someone’s lying, assess power dynamics in seconds, and restructure negotiations to benefit everyone involved. ”
“That’s lovely, sweetheart—”
“Ms. Carter,” she corrects sharply. “And I’m not finished.”
McCoy’s eyebrows raise. Not used to being interrupted.
“You run three clubs that generate significant revenue,” Parker continues. “But your staff turnover is the highest of any operation in our organization. Seventy-three percent annually. Do you know what that costs? In training, in consistency, in institutional knowledge?”
McCoy’s jaw tightens. “Girls come and go. It’s the nature of the business.”
“Women leave when they’re not valued,” Parker counters. “When they’re treated as expendable instead of essential. Your profit margins could increase by fifteen to twenty percent if you retained experienced staff. But that would require seeing them as people instead of pretty assets.”
“I don’t need a lecture from—”
“A woman?” Parker finishes. “That’s hard to believe considering you seem to have difficulty thinking beyond the base expectations bestowed upon a caveman of your position.
It’s not your fault, though, most idiots can’t see beyond a dopamine high long enough to structure an original thought.
That being said, I’ll put it simply: you need results.
And I can deliver them. Unless you’d prefer to keep bleeding money through turnover while your competitors stabilize their operations. ”
McCoy studies her, reassessing. “And how exactly would you do that?”
“Better compensation packages. Clear advancement opportunities. Respect.” Parker pulls out her tablet, swiping through data.
“I’ve been reviewing your operations. The women you hire are smart—many have college degrees, speak multiple languages, and have connections you’re not utilizing.
You’re wasting potential because you can’t see past their appearance to their actual value. ”
“This is a club, not a charity—”
“This is a business,” Parker corrects. “And businesses that treat employees well make more money. It’s basic economics.”
McCoy leans back, arms crossed. “You’re very confident for someone who’s been back less than a week.”
“I’m confident because I’m right.” Parker meets his eyes without flinching.
“But don’t take my word for it. Let me conduct a full operational assessment.
Three months. I’ll identify inefficiencies, restructure your staffing model, and increase your profit margins.
If I can’t deliver results, you can go back to your current system. ”
“And if you can deliver?”
“Then you start treating women like valuable assets instead of disposable decorations.”
McCoy’s smile turns calculating. “You’ve got spirit. I’ll give you that. Your father would have liked that. Probably tried to break it out of you, but he’d have appreciated the fire.”
“My father is dead,” Parker says flatly.
“And I’m not interested in his opinions or yours about what women should be.
I’m interested in making this organization more efficient and profitable.
Are you interested in results, Mr. McCoy, or just maintaining outdated systems because they make you feel powerful? ”
McCoy’s eyes narrow. Then he laughs—genuine this time, surprised. “Alright, Ms. Carter. You’ve got yourself a deal. Three months. Show me these miraculous improvements.”
He extends his hand across the table.
Parker reaches to shake it.
And McCoy’s grip changes—slides from professional to familiar, his thumb stroking across her knuckles in a way that makes my vision go red.
“Though I have to say,” he continues, his voice dropping to something that thinks it’s charming, “it’s a shame you’re all business. A woman who looks like you, with fire like that—you could make a fortune in my clubs. Customers would pay premium just to—”
I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in.
Three steps. That’s all it takes. Three steps and I’m at the table, my hand slamming McCoy’s down against the wood before he can react.
The knife appears in my other hand like magic—eight inches of steel that’s tasted blood more times than I can count. I drive it through the back of his hand, pinning it to the table between the fourth and fifth metacarpal with surgical precision.
McCoy’s scream cuts off when my other hand finds his throat.
“Silas—” Jace’s voice, warning.
But I’m not listening. I’m watching McCoy’s eyes go wide as I lean in close, applying just enough pressure to his windpipe to make breathing difficult.
“You don’t touch her,” I say quietly. Conversationally. “You don’t look at her like that. You don’t suggest she work in your clubs or anywhere else. You speak to her with respect, you shake her hand professionally, and you remember your fucking place.”
McCoy’s free hand scrabbles at mine, trying to pry my fingers from his throat. His pinned hand twitches uselessly, blood welling around the blade.
“Silas,” Parker’s voice cuts through the haze. “Let him go.”
I don’t want to. I want to keep squeezing until something breaks. Want to twist the knife. Want to make sure Devon McCoy never looks at another woman like she’s merchandise.
“Silas.” Her hand touches my arm. Light. Gentle. “Let. Him. Go.”
The contact grounds me. Reminds me where I am. What’s at stake.
I release McCoy’s throat. Pull the knife free in one smooth motion, wiping the blood off on his expensive suit jacket.
McCoy gasps, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest. “You—you psychotic—”
“Mr. McCoy,” Parker says calmly, as if a man wasn’t just stabbed at her business meeting. “I think we’re done here. You’ll receive my operational assessment proposal by the end of the week. I suggest you review it carefully.”
She stands, gathering her tablet and notes with steady hands.
“You can’t just—” McCoy sputters, blood dripping from his hand onto the table.