Page 8 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

The scent of old books and freshly brewed coffee wraps around me as I push through the door of Moretti's Books & Brew. The bell above the entrance chimes its usual welcome, and I feel the tension I've been carrying since last night finally start to ease from my shoulders.

This place is my sanctuary. Tucked away on a quiet side street in Park Slope, it's the kind of neighborhood bookstore that feels like stepping back in time—floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with worn paperbacks and leather-bound classics, mismatched armchairs clustered around small tables, and the constant hum of locals who treat it more like their living room than a business.

"There's my favorite troublemaker," calls out Sal Moretti from behind the counter, his weathered face breaking into the kind of smile that reaches all the way to his eyes.

He's in his seventies now, with silver hair that refuses to lie flat and reading glasses I’ve only ever seen on top of his head and never in use. "The usual?"

"You know me too well," I reply, settling onto my favorite stool at the counter—the one with the slightly wobbly leg that I've claimed as my own for the past eight years.

Sal prepares my coffee exactly how I like it: dark roast, two sugars, splash of cream. It's one of the small constants in my life, something I can count on when everything else feels uncertain.

"You look tired, kid," he observes, sliding the steaming mug across the worn wooden counter. "Rough night?"

"Something like that." I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into my fingers. "Work stuff."

Sal's known what I do for a living for years now.

When I was twenty-two and desperate, I tried running a clumsy credit card scam in his store.

Instead of calling the cops, he saw right through my amateur technique and gave me a job shelving books.

More importantly, he gave me the closest thing to a real home I'd had in years.

He's never approved of my methods, but he's never abandoned me either. Just keeps a pot of coffee warm and a safe place ready for when the world gets too complicated.

My phone buzzes against the counter, and I glance down to see Graham's name on the screen. My pulse quickens as I read:

I hope you enjoyed the champagne as much as I enjoyed the company.

There's a gallery opening tomorrow night—contemporary pieces that might interest someone with your particular appreciation for.

.. acquisition strategies. Care to join me for an evening of art and perhaps more stimulating conversation, and, with luck, a slightly less sedated finish?

I can't help but smile. Even through text, Graham's arrogance is palpable. He's not angry about being drugged—he's amused by it. Either he's completely insane or he's exactly as dangerous as I suspected.

"I know that look," Sal says, polishing a coffee mug with exaggerated nonchalance.

"What look?" I ask, not taking my eyes off the phone.

"That look. The one that says some guy has got you all twisted up inside."

"There's no look," I protest, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck. "And there's definitely no guy. You know what I do, Sal. There's no room for complications."

He sets down the mug and gives me the kind of stare that suggests he’s not buying it for a second. “Kid, I’ve been watching people fall in and out of love for seventy-three years. Trust me, I know the signs.”

“Well, your radar’s broken this time.” I take a sip of coffee, using the mug to hide my face. “This is work. Just work.”

“If you say so.” He shrugs, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes that makes me want to throw something at him. “But I’ll tell you this—there’s more to life than staying safe. You deserve to be happy too. Not just survive. Happy.”

The words land heavier than I want them to, digging under my skin. “Sal?—”

“I know, I know. Not my business.” He holds up his hands in surrender, though his eyes soften. “But somebody’s got to remind you that you deserve good things. The sorts of things you talked about having when I met you. Not just the games you play to keep your guard up.”

“That was a long time ago,” I say quietly. “I was just a kid then. Things are different now.”

“You’re still that kid sometimes,” he says gently. “Scared and angry and convinced the whole world’s out to get you. But you’re also smart and brave and capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for.”

I stare down into my coffee, watching the cream swirl in lazy patterns.

Losing my parents at seventeen changed everything— one drunk driver, one split second, and suddenly I was alone with medical bills and a system that had already written me off.

College plans disappeared overnight. The future I'd mapped out became just another thing I'd lost.

What little inheritance remained after the hospital bills should have been enough to get me through my first year of community college.

Would have been, if I hadn't trusted Ethan.

Twenty-two to my eighteen, he had kind eyes and promises about investing my money to help it grow.

Said he'd take care of me the way my parents would have wanted.

I believed him because I needed to believe someone gave a damn whether I lived or died.

He vanished with every penny I had left. Left me with nothing but a harsh lesson about trusting men who smile too easily and make promises they never intend to keep.

That's when I decided if men were going to scam women out of their money and security, I'd level the playing field. Every mark since then has been payback for Ethan and every other predator who targets vulnerable women. Call it justice or call it revenge—either way, it pays the bills.

Finding Sal five years later probably saved my life in more ways than one. He taught me that surviving and living didn't have to be the same thing, even if I still haven't figured out the difference.

"Anyway," I say, shaking off the melancholy that always comes with trips down memory lane, "I should get going. Got some research to do."

"Research," Sal repeats, clearly not convinced. "Right. Just... be careful, okay? Whatever this job is, whoever this guy is—your gut's usually good about these things. Listen to it."

I slide off the stool and give him a quick hug—something I never would have been able to do when I first started coming here. "I am always careful. It's what keeps me alive."

"That's what worries me," he mutters, but he hugs me back.

I settle into my usual corner booth, the one with a clear view of both the front door and the back exit—old habits die hard. Before responding to Graham, I need to check in with Iris. My fingers fly across the phone screen:

Heard from our friend. Wants to see me again. Gallery opening tomorrow.

Her response comes back almost immediately:

D, are you insane? From what I'm finding about the Owner's Club, you need to be VERY careful.

These aren't just rich guys playing games.

There are connections to missing women, unexplained deaths, cover-ups that go all the way to the top.

Remember that Christopher guy who was killed six months ago?

Official story was suicide, but no one's buying it.

This is bigger and more dangerous than we thought.

I frown at the screen. Iris tends toward paranoia, but she's also the best researcher I know. If she's worried, maybe I should be too.

How dangerous are we talking?

The kind where people disappear and no one asks dangerous questions. The kind where money and power can make inconvenient problems go away permanently. Promise me you'll think about walking away from this one.

I stare at her message for a long moment. The smart thing would be to listen to her. Cut my losses, find a safer target, stick to the kind of marks who won't get me killed if I make a mistake.

But then I think about Graham's smile, the way he looked at me like I was the most interesting puzzle he'd encountered in years. The boredom in his voice when he talked about his life, the genuine excitement when he realized I was playing him.

I've spent my entire adult life playing it safe, taking calculated risks, never reaching for anything that might be worth having because it might also be worth losing. Maybe it's time to see what happens when I don't play it safe.

I'll be careful. But I'm not walking away. Not yet.

Delilah…

I know what I'm doing, Iris. Trust me.

Even as I type the words, I'm not sure I believe them.

But I've come this far, and something about Graham Ellsworth has hooked me in a way I can't quite explain.

Maybe it's the challenge he represents, or maybe it's the way he seems to see right through all my carefully constructed masks to something real underneath.

Either way, I'm not ready to walk away.

I switch back to Graham's message and type my response:

I do appreciate fine art. What time should I meet you?

Hopefully you’ll be able to stay awake longer this time. You were so very exhausted.

His reply comes back almost instantly:

I'll pick you up at seven. Wear something that makes a statement—the artist we're supporting believes art should provoke strong reactions.

And don’t worry—I plan on being fully conscious when things get interesting later.

I smile despite myself. Even his invitations are challenges.

I'll see what I can do.

As I slip my phone back into my pocket, I catch Sal watching me from behind the counter with that knowing look that always makes me feel like he can see straight through to my soul.

"Still no guy?" he asks innocently.

"Still no guy," I lie.