Chapter 6
SETH
The man sitting before me leans forward, his dark eyes hopeful. “Do you really think you can recover my father’s gold bars?”
I’m absolutely confident we can. Damiano and I excel at this sort of job.
“Before we start, Mr. Rodriguez, we’ll need to examine your paperwork, proof of ownership, all of those things.
” I consider the slight man on the other side of my desk.
“If everything is in order, Mr. Romano and I will send a team down to Venezuela. Our success rate is at ninety-one percent. I’m confident we’ll recover your father’s gold. ”
Rodriguez frowns. “Point Ops has a ninety-five percent success rate.”
No doubt, our competitor fudged his numbers.
“But I’m here for a reason,” Rodriguez rushes to say. “I operate by more than logic, Mr. Colton. I operate by feeling, by passion. And Point Ops gave me no good feelings. Point Ops feels…untrustworthy. Nove feels much better.”
I’m tempted to share exactly what I think about Point Ops and the human shitstain they have for a CEO, but I keep a tactful half-smile on my face and say, “It sounds like you’ve come to the right place, then.”
“I agree.” Rodriguez stands. “Thank you, Mr. Colton. I’ll have my attorney forward all of the relevant information to you.”
Once he’s out of my office, I slump back in my chair, grinning to myself.
Officially, Damiano and I started Nove three years ago.
Unofficially, we’ve been running operations in other countries for almost six years.
Our combined military training and Damiano’s bottomless investment funds have given us the ability to climb the ranks of civilian international recovery ops companies.
There aren’t many, but we quickly rose to the top because we accept the small jobs along with the big ones.
And when we do take a small job, we treat it as if it’s just as important as the big ones. Because to the client, it is.
Rodriguez will be happy he chose Nove because we’ll get the job done. Responsibly. Safely.
I pick up my phone and text Damiano. Landed the Rodriguez Venezuela job.
He responds. Good. Let’s celebrate by calling Miss M.
Motherfucker. He won’t let this go. I don’t reply.
You enjoyed that just as much as I did, he adds. I know you did.
I put my phone face-down on my desk. He’s right, but that was Madison. Not some random woman we bought at the auction. I know her. I’ve known her since she was eighteen. She was off-limits from the beginning because she was my little brother’s girl, and she will remain off-limits.
She’s off-limits even when my mind is conjuring images of her standing naked on that stage, her belly chain twinkling in the light, her gaze playful as she looked blindly into the audience.
Her shock when she saw it was I who won the bid.
The flare of arousal in her eyes when I told her to fuck Damiano.
Goddammit, now I’m hard. First Leah, now Madison. Why do I keep wanting the women I can’t have?
* * *
MADISON
The law office building is so big, I have to crane my neck to see the top.
This is a far cry from my shitty apartment building on the other side of town.
Cars whiz past on the well-kept boulevard.
A woman in heels marches smartly past, her white, fluffy dog on a pink leash trotting along beside her.
I straighten the frayed hem of my button-up blouse. I wanted to dress up for this appointment, but my nicest dress is more suited for a club. The shirt I’m wearing is the one I wore to my interview with Glinda’s Catering last year. It wasn’t new then, and it certainly isn’t now.
I should’ve worn heels to dress up my outfit, but I didn’t want to splurge for a ride or have to pay for parking, so I wore tennis shoes and walked. My face is warm, and a trickle of sweat falls down my spine. Lovely. Just lovely.
Stepping through big glass doors and into the lobby, I suck in the overly-conditioned air. It’s freezing in here. The contrast against the September heat is stark, raising goosebumps on my arms.
A receptionist eyes me warily from a desk to the side. He pushes his hair back on his forehead. “Can I help you?”
“Um, yes. I have a meeting with Ms. Rubio?” I hate that I phrase it like a question. “With Rubio, Singh, and Balan.” There. At least that part didn’t come out like a question.
“You’ll want the twenty-fifth floor.” He gestures toward the elevators.
“Thanks.” I step into the elevator and push the button.
Just as the doors are about to close, a man rushes forward. Thinking I’ll do the nice thing, I push the “door open” button.
He slides into the elevator with a sheepish grin. “Thanks!”
“No problem.”
He moves to the button panel, but pauses when he sees the 25 is already lit. “Looks like we’re going to the same place.”
I give him my best noncommittal smile. He seems nice enough, but I’m not here to make friends.
I’m too nervous. On the bright side, his lack of professional polish is similar to mine—he’s in jeans and tennis shoes.
His plaid, flannel shirt looks far too warm for the weather outside.
Then again, it’s about right for this insane air conditioning.
He gestures me forward when the elevator doors open to spit us out on the twenty-fifth floor.
Two men are standing in the comfortable waiting room.
Immediately, I recognize my cousin Derick.
He stands at over six feet tall, and he’s always been lanky.
His build apparently hasn’t changed in the ten years since I last saw him.
The guy next to him must be his brother, Crane.
He’s thin like Derick, but not quite as tall.
The two of them shoot me a dirty look as soon as I step forward.
“Uh…hi.” I offer them a finger wave. They don’t wave back, and instead nod greetings at the guy behind me. Suddenly, I realize that flannel plaid guy from the elevator is the third brother. I turn around. “Ford? Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
His smile is tight, forced. “No problem, I get that a lot.”
Well. That’s depressing. I clear my throat. “Um, so you guys are here for Great-Aunt Vivienne?”
“Yep.” Derick sighs like he’s bored.
I’d offer condolences, but I don’t get the sense that any of my cousins are particularly broken up about Great-Aunt Vivienne’s death.
“Is Paul coming?” Crane asks.
I give a start. “I don’t know.”
He gives me a strange look.
I shrug. “I haven’t talked to him in a while.”
Several years, in fact. When my parents ghosted me at my wedding in favor of attending Paul’s soccer scrimmage—not even an actual game—I stopped trying.
I thought they might reach out after a couple of weeks, but no.
Then I thought they’d reach out at Thanksgiving.
Also no. And not at Christmas—not even an unsigned card.
I’d been hurt, but Kyle was my rock, promising me that we’d make our own family and we’d make our own fun.
A few months later, he died while riding his motorcycle, and his promises were broken.
I should’ve made an effort to get closer to Great-Aunt Vivienne. I think she actually cared about me.
I need a distraction from my self-pity. I glance around the crisp waiting room, with its neutral-toned sofas and the generic, abstract art on the walls.
A door to the side of the room opens, and a short, red-haired woman steps through it. “Ah, it looks like everyone’s here. I’m Gemma Rubio. Please, come in. There’s a pitcher of water here on the table, but can I have my assistant get you anything else? Coffee, soda…?”
We all murmur that we’re fine, thanks, as we follow Ms. Rubio into the small conference room. The table seats eight, three on each side, plus one at either end. My cousins take three chairs on one side. I sit opposite them, feeling like we’re pitted against each other for some reason.
“Is everyone ready?” Ms. Rubio pours herself a glass of water. When we all nod and shrug, she opens a file folder on the table in front of her. “All right, let’s do this.”
Ms. Rubio reads the will aloud, going through a bunch of investment accounts and how they’ll be divided among Vivienne’s grandnephews, my cousins. I’m not mentioned, and that’s fine. They knew her better than I did, from what I understand. They were allowed to visit her and spend time with her.
Besides, I’m not here for money. Some little piece of jewelry or a sentimental item to remember my aunt would be nice, but even then, I have this star sapphire she gave me. I’ll be okay. I barely knew her. More of a reminder than this could make me feel even worse for not trying to know her better.
My cousins elbow each other, nodding and smiling when various amounts are revealed, the worth of different accounts and even a couple of rental properties that will be sold so the profits can be divided.
It sounds like a lot of money—a life-changing amount of money.
I don’t really know my cousins well, but I’m glad for them.
Derick holds up a hand as Ms. Rubio lists another investment account. “You haven’t said anything about Vivienne’s house.”
“I haven’t reached that part of the will yet.” Ms. Rubio raises her eyebrows, as if to ask him if he’s done interrupting.
He lowers his hand, chastised. A few more accounts are mentioned, and it sounds like everything’s being evenly divided between my cousins. It also sounds like Great-Aunt Vivienne was loaded.
I’m starting to feel a little antsy, like an imposter.
Maybe I was asked here as a mistake. Or maybe Great-Aunt Vivienne wants to rebuke me from beyond the veil, here in this too-cold conference room, because I was a terrible grandniece who never reached out when she should have.
I deserve the rebuke, but that doesn’t mean I want to sit here and wait for it.
“And to my grandniece, Madison Greene.” Ms. Rubio flicks a glance toward me.
I sit up straighter. Here it comes. I brace myself for caustic recriminations.
Ms. Rubio continues, “And to my grandniece Madison Greene, I leave my savings account, the contents of my safe deposit box, and my home at 334 Oak Street, including everything inside of it.”