Page 2 of Finding Denver

Alistair shrugs a shoulder. “You’d be doing the Gallaghers a favor if you took over their shit show of a territory. They’ve not made a profit in six months.”

I don’t ask how he knows that.

Taf takes a swig of his beer. “We should start a hashtag. HarlandIsBackBitches or something.”

I throw him a smile. “Yeah, I’m sure the DEA would appreciate the heads up.”

“Being famous works for the Luxes,” he says.

I grunt in response.

“Speaking of. Look who just got announced as Businesswoman of the Year,” Alistair says, a smirk tilting his lips as he shows me his phone.

I take the device and scroll through the article, pausing on the photograph of Denver Luxe. It’s from a shoot she did for People Magazine a few months back. I’ve read and reread that piece on her, how she was quickly rising in the business world, putting her past behind her.

Her past? A dead husband and cop.

In the photograph, she’s sitting on the stairs of her home, elbow on her knee, chin on her hand, smiling brightly at the camera. A casual look—jeans and a T-shirt, hair down. “Behind The Deluxe,” they’d called it. A real-life glimpse into Denver Luxe.

The woman I’ll kill one day.

“Good for her,” I say, handing the phone back and returning my attention to our surroundings.

The low, melodic music of the bar isn’t familiar. It’s been a long time since I ventured out at this hour purely for socializing. Work? Yes. Drinks? No. This hasn’t been my kind of place since before I was married, when nights in with Callie became far more interesting than waking up with a woman whose name I’d forgotten before we’d even called a taxi.

I lean back in the maroon-leather booth, quietly scanning the crowd, when I spot a face I recognize. He’s approaching our table, and I gather from Alistair’s sigh that not much has changed when it comes to Vince Capelli.

“Not tonight, Vince. I can’t be fucked with you,” Alistair says.

Vincenzo Capelli Jr. reaches our table. He’s our age, and as close to power as a man can be without actually experiencing it. His grandfather, Vincenzo Sr., is the oldest don in the city—not the most powerful but respected for his time in the business. He’s of a generation that demands respect, and honestly, he deserves it, too. The first time we met and I’d suggested our families become acquainted, he’d called me a cocky dreamer. He still agreed to meet me a week later, though. He’s a good man, bored of the traditions that keep us at war, eager for change.

I can’t say the same for what I’ve heard about Vince. He throws his grandfather’s name around to get what he wants, and most are afraid to deny him anything because he’s a Capelli. It’s a bullshit form of power, one I know his grandfather won’t appreciate him exploiting. To put it short, Vince Capelli is a little shit, and it seems I’m about to get a front-row seat to a tantrum.

He eyeballs Alistair with disdain, and doesn’t even glance at me. “This is our table.”

“This isn’t a fucking musical,” Taf says. “Unless you want to break out into a synchronized number. What would that be called?”

“‘Our Table, Our Rules?’” Alistair offers, brows raised in amusement.

Taf looks excited. “That’s a good one.”

Vince rests his hand on the table, and I examine his fingers. The gold ring on his pinky belonged to his father, Antonio. A man I met once or twice, too. He didn’t die in a blaze of glory like most assume we all do; he had a heart attack while walking to his car one day. He liked me. I liked him. He said once that he wished his kid was as switched on as me. I guess he wasn’t exaggerating.

“Move, Alistair,” Vince whispers. “Or I’ll make you move.”

“How?”

Vince’s gaze cuts to mine, brows lowered in annoyance. He grimaces as if he hadn’t even realized I’m here. “What?”

I tilt my head. “How will you make Alistair move?”

What’s interesting about this dynamic is that it’s unfolding because of the seats we’ve chosen. Alistair deals with the day-to-day of Harland Industries, so whenever he’s in public, he sits in the center. It’s a sign of protection. Of hierarchy.

The true hierarchy is that I should be in the center.

It’s pure habit that we sat this way, which has led to Vince Capelli looking at me as if I’m on the payroll, and not with the respect I deserve.

“Well, I’ll start by introducing your face to this fucking table,” Vince says to me. “How about that?”