31. Kane
KANE
The conference room overlooks the harbor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Polished table. Twenty leather chairs arranged in perfect symmetry. Fletcher's presentation materials already laid out at each seat.
I recognize half the people in the room. Developers. Investment managers. A couple of city planning officials whose names I know from permits and zoning hearings.
Delilah stands beside me near the door. She's wearing the navy dress we picked out yesterday. She looks professional, confident—every inch the business owner.
She's nervous, though. I can tell from the way she keeps adjusting her watch.
I lean in and murmur, "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
I take her hand and squeeze once before letting go.
Fletcher enters at two o'clock. He's in his fifties, gray-haired, expensively suited. The type of man who measures his value in square footage and profit margins.
He shakes hands with the investors, working the room like a politician. When he reaches us, his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Mr. Makov. I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"I'm sure you weren't."
He doesn't acknowledge Delilah. And why would he? He's a dinosaur. Men like him never look at the women in the room twice unless it's to demand coffee or slap their asses.
"I see." He recovers quickly from his confusion. "I hope you'll find today's presentation informative."
"I'm sure I will."
Fletcher moves on. Takes his position at the head of the table.
We sit near the back. Close enough to hear everything. Far enough to watch the room.
The presentation begins.
Fletcher talks about the corridor. The vision. Mixed-use development. Residential towers. Retail space. A waterfront promenade that will transform the neighborhood.
He projects images onto the screen. Architectural renderings. Financial projections. Maps showing the assembled parcels.
Ninety-one properties, all shaded green.
Except one.
Lot 22 sits there in the middle of the corridor, uncolored and unacknowledged.
Fletcher doesn't mention it. Just keeps talking about the project as if the site is complete.
One of the investors raises his hand. "What's the timeline?"
"Groundbreaking in six months. First occupancy within two years."
"And the properties are all secured?"
Fletcher doesn't hesitate. "Yes. Every parcel is under contract or already transferred."
Delilah's hand tightens on the armrest.
I stand.
Fletcher stops mid-sentence. "Mr. Makov. Did you have a question?"
"I do. You said every parcel is secured."
"That's correct."
"Does that include Lot 22?"
The room goes quiet.
Fletcher's smile holds. "I'm not sure what you're referring to."
"The bakery. The one in the middle of your corridor." I point to the map on the screen. "Right there."
He glances at the projection. "That property is part of the assemblage, yes."
"Is it secured?"
"Negotiations are ongoing."
"That's not what I asked. I asked if it's secured. Under contract. Transferred. Whatever language you want to use."
Fletcher's jaw tightens. "Not yet. But we're confident—"
"So the answer is no."
"The answer is that we expect to finalize that acquisition shortly."
"Based on what? The owner's willingness to sell?"
"Based on reasonable compensation and standard acquisition procedures."
I turn to Delilah. "Ms. Dorsey. Do you have any plans to sell your bakery?"
She stands. "No. I don't."
Every head in the room swivels toward her.
Fletcher clears his throat. "I'm sorry. Who are you?"
"Delilah Dorsey. I own the property you just claimed is part of your project."
His face drains.
"Ms. Dorsey." His voice wavers. He's shaken, and why wouldn't he be? The woman he dismissed earlier just turned out to be the key to ruining him. "I understand you may have concerns, but—"
"I don't have concerns. I have a deed. And I'm not selling."
One of the investors shifts in his seat. "Mr. Fletcher. Is this accurate?"
"It's a temporary situation," Fletcher says smoothly. "We're working with the city to resolve any outstanding acquisition issues."
"Resolve how?" I prod.
"Through standard compulsory purchase procedures."
Delilah crosses her arms. "You're talking about your doomed plan to seize my building?"
"Not seize. Acquire. With fair compensation."
"I don't want compensation. I want my bakery."
"Ms. Dorsey, I appreciate your attachment to the property, but—"
"Screw attachment. I'm the owner. That building is mine. I rebuilt it once already after your friend's attack dogs burned it down. I'm opening again in October. And I'm not going anywhere."
The room erupts in murmurs.
Fletcher holds up a hand. "I think there's been a misunderstanding—"
"Has the city approved compulsory acquisition for Lot 22?" I ask.
Fletcher hesitates. "The application is under review."
"That's not what I asked. Has it been approved?"
"Not yet. But we expect—"
"So right now, this project depends on acquiring a property you don't own, from an owner who refuses to sell, through a legal process that hasn't been approved."
Fletcher's face darkens. "That's an oversimplification."
"Is it?"
One of the investors stands. "Mr. Fletcher. I need confirmation that the occupied properties are actually secured before we advance any additional funds."
"Of course," Fletcher says tightly. "We can arrange—"
"Not from you. From a third party. Someone who can verify the status of every parcel."
Another investor nods. "I'd like the same."
"As would I," a third adds.
Fletcher looks around the room. His polished confidence is cracking. "Gentlemen, I assure you, this is a minor complication."
"It doesn't sound minor," the first investor says. "It sounds like your entire project hinges on acquiring a single property you may never get."
Fletcher tries to regain control. "I understand there are questions. And we'll address all of them in due course. But I want to emphasize that this project represents a significant opportunity."
"For you, maybe," Delilah murmurs. "Not for me."
The room stays silent.
Fletcher's eyes move from her to me, then back at the investors who are already closing their folders and whispering to each other.
He knows he's lost them.
"If there are no further questions," Fletcher says stiffly, "we can reconvene once we have additional documentation."
The investors stand. Some shake Fletcher's hand on their way out. Most don't.
Within five minutes, the room is nearly empty.
Fletcher approaches us. "Mr. Makov. If I could have a word."
"Go ahead," I say.
"In private."
"Anything you have to say, you can say in front of her."
He glances at Delilah. "Ms. Dorsey, I understand you're in a difficult position. But I think if we sat down and discussed this reasonably—"
"There's nothing to discuss," she says.
"I'm prepared to make a very generous offer."
"I'm not interested."
Fletcher looks at me. "Perhaps you could help Ms. Dorsey see the practical side of this situation."
"The practical side?"
"This project is moving forward. With or without her cooperation. It would be in her best interest to negotiate now, while there's still room for flexibility. The same goes for you."
"For me," I echo.
"I understand the properties in the corridor once belonged to you. If Lot 22 ceased being an issue, I'd be open to a negotiation. I'm sure you'd want nothing more than to restore part of what you lost."
I step closer. "Let me make something very clear. Ms. Dorsey doesn't need my help seeing anything. She's already told you no. Multiple times. And that's not going to change."
"Mr. Makov—"
"As for me," I add, voice dropping dangerously low, "don't ever presume you know what I want."
"I—"
"We're done here."
I take Delilah's arm and guide her toward the door.
Behind us, Fletcher calls out, "You're making a mistake."
I don't turn around.
Neither does Delilah.
In the car, Delilah sits in silence, staring out the window.
Stepan pulls away from the curb. Traffic is light for mid-afternoon. We'll be home in fifteen.
I watch her. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You were good in there."
She looks at me. "Was I?"
"You stood up to Fletcher in front of a room full of investors and told him what you thought. Yeah. You were good."
A small smile tugs at her mouth. "I was terrified the whole time."
"Didn't show."
"I felt like I was going to throw up."
"Still didn't show."
She laughs softly. "You were pretty impressive yourself."
"Was I?"
"You dismantled his entire pitch in about three questions. I forgot how good you are at that."
"At what?"
"Business. Strategy. Seeing through people's bullshit." She leans back in her seat. "I liked watching you do it."
Something warm spreads through my chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You were in your element."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"I would. You walked into that room and took control without even raising your voice. It was—" She pauses. "It was really hot, actually."
I smirk. "Hot?"
Her face flushes. "Don't make me say it again."
"Too late. Say it again."
"Kane—"
"Say it."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Fine. Watching you eviscerate Fletcher's presentation was extremely attractive. Happy?"
"Very."
She shakes her head. "You're impossible."
"You love me anyway."
"Unfortunately."
I reach for her hand. She laces her fingers through mine.
We sit like that for a while, enjoying the silence and each other.
Then she says, "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"When you were questioning Fletcher. Did you enjoy it?"
I think about that. "Yeah. I did."
"Why?"
"Because he was lying. And I got to prove it."
"But it wasn't just that, was it?"
"What do you mean?"
She looks at me. "You weren't just defending me. You were enjoying the fight. The strategy. The takedown."
I consider lying. Downplaying it.
But she's right. And she deserves honesty.
"Yeah," I say. "I was."
"Good."
I blink. "Good?"
"Yeah. I don't want you to stop being that person just because you chose me."
"I'm not—"
"You've been holding back. I can tell. Like you think if you show too much ambition or too much interest in work, I'll think you regret trading the corridor for me."
"Do you think that?"
"I was starting to," Delilah admits. "But not anymore." She squeezes my hand. "Today reminded me that choosing me didn't mean you stopped wanting things. It just meant you wanted me more."
Her words settle into something deep and solid in my chest.
"I do want things," I admit. "I want my properties back. To rebuild what I lost. I want Vetrov's operation destroyed."
"I know."
"But I'd still choose you. Every time."
"I know that too. And I don't want you to feel guilty about wanting more."
I pull her closer. "You're sure?"
"Yes. I like that you're ambitious. I like that you walk into rooms and take charge. I don't want you to be less than you are just to make me feel more secure."
"I don't want you to feel insecure at all."
"I won't. Not as long as you keep showing up."
"I will."
She kisses my jaw. "Then we're good."
I turn her face toward mine and kiss her properly.
It tastes like victory.