11. Liam
LIAM
The Station Bar is what happens when a place refuses to change. There are no influencer partnerships or marketed reinventions, only the same scratched counter, the same uneven stools, and a bartender who has never once asked what I do for a living.
It’s refreshing. Because outside these walls, my name moves markets. Economists write op-eds about whether I’m strengthening the industry or tearing it apart. Here, I’m just a man with his brother, his closest friend, and a glass that needs refilling.
Max and I claim our usual corner of the bar. He checks his watch.
Marcus is late.
Again.
“You think he’s out there practicing how to hold a baby?” Max says.
I take a sip of my bourbon. “No. He’s watching tutorials. Frame by frame. Probably paused on hand placement.”
Max grins. “He can buy half the city, but the first time that kid cries at three a.m., he’s going to look like he’s negotiating with a hurricane.”
“For once, the market owns him,” I say, chuckling to myself.
Max laughs then nudges my shoulder. “Enjoy the show, big L. You’re up next.”
“Not in this decade,” I say easily.
“So, next decade?” He stares at me. “You’ll be fifty, Liam.”
Max never lets me forget who’s older—not necessarily wiser.
We trade jabs the way brothers do. It’s our language.
But there’s something I’ve never handed over to him.
I watch. I step in. I take the hit first if I have to.
I’ve always done that. Even when he was too young to understand that the people meant to shield us were the ones we had to defend against.
I swirl my bourbon. “We’re still talking about Lockwood,” I remind him.
“Of course,” Max replies, far too innocent.
Right on cue, Marcus steps in. He finds us immediately and crosses the room like he’s late to a board meeting instead of a bar with sticky floors.
“You’re late,” Max says.
“I’m busy,” Marcus replies, taking the stool beside mine and nodding at the bartender. “A patient of mine. He said he wanted a ‘natural look,’ then handed me a photo of Brad Pitt from 1997.”
“The curse of being a plastic surgeon,” I quip.
A lager lands in front of Marcus, Max’s IPA is refreshed, and my bourbon is poured the way I take it.
Marcus takes a slow look between us. “You two were talking.”
“About your future,” Max says.
Marcus sighs. “God.”
“Relax,” I tell him. “We decided you’re going to be fine.”
“That’s reassuring,” he says dryly.
“You’re meticulous,” Max continues. “You measure everything twice. Except sleep. That’s about to measure you.”
I toss Marcus a warning smile. “You realize you won’t be able to hand the baby back to the nurse this time.”
Marcus leans back, studying us both. “You’re volunteering?”
“For uncle duty?” Max says. “Absolutely. I’ll teach him how to throw a punch.”
“I’ll teach him how to think before they do,” I say.
Marcus snorts. Then he looks at us again, longer this time. “You’ll both be around,” he says, not joking now.
Max doesn’t hesitate. “Obviously.”
I nod. “You’re stuck with us.”
Marcus gives a small shake of his head, but whatever edge he brought in with him fades. “Works for me,” he says.
The conversation returns to its usual track. Quick summaries, small wins, the pieces of the week we only bother telling each other.
Max leans forward for his next disaster. “You’ll appreciate this. My hotel’s new AI concierge nearly caused an international incident this week.”
Marcus lifts a brow. I take a sip. “You and your robots.”
Max clears his throat and begins, “So we rolled out this ‘predictive hospitality assistant.’ It analyzes guest surveys, booking history, social media, travel patterns. Supposed to anticipate needs before the guest even knows them.”
I lift my bourbon. “That’s…bold.”
“It’s brilliant,” Max corrects. “In theory.”
Marcus takes a slow sip. “And in reality?”
Max spreads his hands. “K-Pop superstar checks in. Massive following. We had her preferences logged—low lighting, herbal teas, privacy protocols. The AI processes her data, and upgrades her.”
“To?” I ask.
“The ‘Zen Silence Suite.’”
“That sounds correct so far,” Marcus says.
Max grins wider. “Except the algorithm misread one archived interview where she said she ‘loved loud energy.’ It categorized her as someone who thrives on high stimulation.”
I close my eyes briefly. “No.”
“Oh yes.” Max laughs. “The room was prepped with surround-sound party mode, automated champagne popper scheduled for 9 p.m., and a holographic welcome message blasting one of her own songs.”
Marcus stills mid-sip.
“She walked in,” Max continues, “and the room immediately started pulsing like a nightclub in Shibuya. My staff thought we were done for. International headlines. ‘Luxury Hotel Assaults Star With Her Own Discography.’”
Marcus rubs his jaw. “Damage control?”
“That’s the thing.” Max leans back. “She cracked up, and said it was the most dramatic self-welcome she’d ever received. Took a video. Posted it. Called it ‘AI having a main character moment.’ By morning she extended her stay. Left a five-star review about innovation.”
My brother is still grinning about his rogue suite when I set my glass down a little harder than I mean to.
He squints at me. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That face. The one that says the fun portion of the evening has officially expired. And snap, you turn into a wet blanket.”
Marcus leans back. “He’s thinking.”
At the far end of the bar, a couple of college kids squeeze onto two stools, one of them already saying he shouldn’t have checked his banking app before coming in.
“Victor Rochemont,” I say slowly. “He asked for a game.”
“Just a matter of time,” Max replies. “What did he ask for?”
“Haven’t gone into that.” I roll the rim of the glass between my fingers. “And he’s bringing a plus one.”
Marcus doesn’t hesitate. “Helena Mercer.”
“Yeah.”
Max shifts in his seat. “They look good together.” His eyes flick to me.
“The Game will decide that,” I say.
“Noted,” Max says. “You playing?”
I press my lips together. That’s answer enough.
For a moment, even Max doesn’t have a joke.
“You guys okay to let them in?” I ask. “Both of them.”
Marcus shrugs. “As always. A client asks, a client gets.”
It’s the founding principle.
New York isn’t a skyline. It’s supply, if you know who holds the keys.
Mansions behind hedges that never make listings.
Museums closed on Mondays but open for the right phone call.
Yachts that don’t exist on paper. Airstrips that file no flight plan anyone remembers.
If someone wants a clandestine pursuit in the Amityville Horror House, we secure the property, clear the press, and make it happen.
If someone wants a black-tie virgin auction at Sotheby’s, we make it convincing even to the most discerning eyes.
There’s very little this city refuses. The trick is knowing which door opens and who answers it. That’s Marcus Lockwood’s gift.
He’s a brother to Max and me. I met him when his clinic was barely afloat and his beauty line was burning cash faster than it earned it.
I didn’t back the business. I backed him.
That decision aged well. Now, as Max likes to exaggerate, he “owns half the city.” Not literally.
What he owns is reach—properties, relationships, leverage over spaces other people can’t even book.
The Velvet Game was his idea. At first it lived inside the club he inherited from his father, The Velvet Trap. Contained. Invitation only. But appetite expands, and so did the Game. It moved quietly into other corners of New York, anywhere fantasy could be staged without leaving fingerprints.
Marcus’s eyes hold mine. “No special treatment. We vet her. We re-vet him.”
“Already started,” I say.
Max nods slowly. “And the fee?”
“I told him he wouldn’t need to pay. He’s an old friend.”
Marcus doesn’t blink. “Fine by me.”
“Yeah,” Max agrees. “We’re not exactly scraping the vault.”
“Victor’s going to feel like the world is his again,” I say.
That earns a smirk from Marcus. “Don’t tell me you’re considering another Beaumont.”
Ah, The Beaumont Royale. Four women entered. Victor and I had no contact with any of them at first. The outcome stayed open, as agreed by all players. We watched and studied, then we chose who to pursue…and made sure the others exited early.
I glance between them. “Tempting. But this is going to be a different hunt. He’s trying to impress his plus one.”
“Then we default,” Marcus says. “Client asks, client gets. Let him define it.”
I ponder. “Actually, I don’t want him dictating the structure. No request. No heads up.”
Max tips his head, intrigued. “Big brother wants control, I see. That about the girl?”
“It’s about the outcome,” I reply. “You okay with that, Lockwood?”
Marcus taps the bar in my direction. “Well,” he says, reaching into his coat pocket, “Brad Pitt wasn’t the whole reason I was late.”
Max perks up immediately. “If this is about another acquisition, get on with it.”
Marcus ignores him. He sets something on the table between us.
A key.
It’s ornate, darkened bronze with weathered etching along the bow, the kind you’d expect to unlock an 1880s shingle mansion overlooking the Hudson. He slides it toward me.
I stare at it. “Marcus?”
“The Trap is yours,” he says. “So is the Game.”
The noise of the bar dulls.
“Marcus…” I murmur. “You serious?”
“Yeah.” His voice doesn’t waver. “I’m not the right custodian anymore.”
Max blinks. “Since when?”
“As you both discussed before, I’ve got another kind of trap to take care of.” He winks, meaning Iris, the baby, and the life he built instead of inherited. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
So he’s stepping away from the mask and the shadow, and from us in a way.
I pick up the key. Technically, it doesn’t unlock any door in the Hudson Valley. But it unlocks authority—and responsibility.
“Thank you,” I say. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know,” Marcus replies.
Max raises his glass first. “To reckless ideas.”
Marcus taps his glass to his. “To evolution.”
I lift mine. “To earning it.”
The glasses meet.
Marcus settles back. “Your game. Your rules.”
Max leans forward immediately. “Can I play next?”
“No,” I say without hesitation.
“Smart,” Marcus adds.
Max scoffs. “Huh. So I’m still a threat.” He strokes his chin like he’s revising history. “You clearly haven’t forgotten who almost got chosen in that Central Park game.”
Marcus laughs outright. “Almost? She kicked you in the nuts.”
“I took the hit for you, Lockwood,” Max protests.
“It was not noble,” Marcus replies. “It was embarrassing.”
I shake my head. “I might not even play.”
Max points at me. “You will.”
“And you,” I say, pointing back at him, “definitely won’t.”
He clutches his chest. “Cruel.”
The banter fades, but something heavier settles in.
I’m already thinking three moves ahead. Angles. Pressure points. Where to wait. How far it can stretch.
And at the center of it?
Helena Mercer.