Page 40

Ethan stands by the windows, his back toward me, a glass of Scotch in his hand. Quietly, I walk into our usual private room in the gentlemen’s club inside The Orchid. We’re meeting the others in an hour, and I want to get some time alone after a week of grueling meetings. I didn’t tell Taylor it took me ten calls and twenty million dollars to buy out every copy of unflattering photos taken of us at the club in Prague.

I also didn’t tell her I had a private investigator tail the asshole who assaulted her at the club. He caught him doing the same thing to another woman a week later. His new victim reported him to the police.

The fucker is in lock up now.

The work at the bank hasn’t stopped since I left Prague—press conferences, financial reporting, new corporate initiatives, forecasting. It’s relentless, and normally, I’d live for the challenge, since I have no one waiting for me at home, but now… I just find myself fucking annoyed at it all. But at least the stock price is finally stabilizing and my name or the Bank of Columbia doesn’t appear in newspapers or gossip rags as often now.

I’ve also thrown myself into interviewing for the permanent CFO role.

This time, I’m vetting out every single candidate myself, reviewing all their background checks, not letting any detail escape me. I haven’t found the right fit yet, and with the interim CFO only assisting in bare minimum tasks, my workload has increased significantly in the meantime.

But through it all, I miss her. I know her sister and girlfriends flew to Edinburgh to spend Christmas with her, but I couldn’t get away—investor calls, all the fucking work landing on my lap as we close out another calendar year, not to mention the almost mandatory networking to be done at the infamous Christmas Ball at The Orchid.

Other than our texts, each of which I’ve read and memorized by heart, and sending her the roses I know she loves, I haven’t seen her or heard her voice.

I often wonder if that night we had together scared her. If she’s keeping her distance on purpose. But I told myself she’d been through unspeakable terrors, that patience is the name of the game now.

Today, I thought I’d get an hour of quiet just to sort through everything, but it seems like I’m not the only one who needs alone time.

Ethan is dressed in a dark suit, his profile still as he stares at the sea of white outside the window. It isn’t a January day in New York City without a snowstorm.

“How is she?” he murmurs, still not looking at me. The cold light renders his face into half shadows.

I know he’s talking about Firefly.

I pour myself a drink before I stand next to him. “How did you know I visited her?” It was the first snowfall of the new year—a blizzard at that. Firefly would always be so excited when that occurred.

“Her favorite time isn’t Christmas. It’s after New Year’s. Everyone fucking hates that time because all the festivities are over, but she loves it. She once told me January symbolized new beginnings. She loves the fresh snow.” An anguished smile appears on his face.

Hearing him talk about Firefly makes me feel shittier as an older brother.

He’s using present tense.

“Maybe this will be the year when she wakes up,” he adds before taking a sip of alcohol.

“You’ve never given up hope?” A thousand pound weight sits on my chest.

“Never.” He turns and stares at me, and I see the determination in his gray eyes, the same dark eyes of the woman who’s constantly in my mind. “Don’t beat yourself up for it, Charles. We all grieve differently. Perhaps I’m the one who isn’t facing reality.”

I’ve always wondered why Ethan hasn’t gone after Firefly—it’s obvious he cares for her a lot, but he’ll deny it if I ask. I wonder if it has anything to do with Liam being his best friend. Him and I aren’t as close—I hung out more with Maxwell and Ryland whereas he spent his time with Liam when they were growing up.

In times like these, I wonder if his feelings run deeper than I originally thought. But Ethan Anderson, despite being the youngest son of the family, reminds me of his oldest brother Maxwell. Quiet. Holding all his cards close against his chest.

“If I took her seriously all those years ago, she probably wouldn’t have gotten into the car. That’s the reality I face every day.” I toss back the whiskey.

“We all make mistakes, Charles. She wouldn’t want you beating yourself up. She’d hate it.”

I know she would. But that doesn’t lessen the guilt.

“Did you ever find out what she wanted to talk to you about that day?” he asks as he sits down in front of the fireplace.

It’s one mystery that has been nagging me ever since her accident. All I knew was, it was an emergency, but it wasn’t life-threatening. She wanted to talk in person.

I never knew why she wanted to meet.

And to this day, other than the guilt of putting her in the position she’s in right now, I also feel I’ve failed her as a brother.

She needed me, and I wasn’t there.

“Charles, you have a moment?” A low voice startles me and I turn toward the doorway, finding it propped open. Elias Kent is leaning against the doorframe.

The man moves without a sound. I suppose that makes him good at whatever he does in his criminal activities.

He smirks as he straightens up and tugs on the lapel of his expensive suit before he nods to Ethan. He motions outside and slips away.

I take it as a sign to follow him.

I find him in a hidden alcove around the corner. The small space is lit up by a few flameless candles, which only draw attention to his dark hair and the long scar spanning his face. He turns toward me before I reach him.

“I have news,” he murmurs.

My pulse ratchets up. “Ian?”

He nods. “Before I tell you, I have to let you know there are other interested parties. It’s a race out there.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes out the lighter I’ve never seen him use again and stares at the gold chain attached to it. “There are people who are very interested in the same thing you’re after. Have you heard of The Association?”

I freeze at the name of the organization, the hairs on the back of my arms rising. “An elite network of powerful people, something like that right? I’ve been warned to stay away from it.”

Elias’s eyes search mine, as if checking to see if I’m telling the truth. Unease slithers up my spine.

Something is very, very wrong here.

“Whoever warned you is wise.” He snaps shut his lighter. “And it’s something like that. I won’t go into the details with you, but it’s an organization of concentrated power—politicians, scientists, billionaires who thirst to dominate their markets. Once you’re in, you can control whatever realm you want to dominate—get into the Senate? Done. Lead the World Bank? Done.”

“Why do I feel like there’s a catch to all of this?”

He scoffs as he sways the lighter in front of him. “There’s always a catch. The Association is formed on blackmail of illegal deeds. You get power, but once you’re in, you’re a slave to it.”

The air thins as I put the pieces together. This was why Grandma said I should avoid it—she knew about the ugly fine print. This was the reason behind Maxwell’s cryptic comment before.

“And Ian is…” I whisper.

“A member.”

Nausea sweeps through me like a sudden storm. “What does this mean?”

Fuck, please tell me this isn’t what it means.

“A member was found dead in the prison three years ago. On his phone was a photo of him and Ian in New York City during the time you asked me about. They were in a lounge and there were women. Intoxicated women. I saved a copy of the photo when I found it and deleted the original.”

The floor swirls around me and I knot my hands around the lapels of his suit. “What are you saying? Spit it out, Elias. Enough of the cloak and dagger shit.”

He stares at me, his green eyes unfazed. “I’m saying he was in the city and he’s a member of an illegal society. And he was at a party where women ,” he swallows, a muscle twitching in his jaw, his eyes flashing with ire, “women were getting taken advantage of.”

Elias yanks my hands off him and shoves me, his face turning red. This is personal to him. I don’t know why, but this investigation has struck a nerve. “I don’t know why you’re looking into Ian, but you fucking put the dots together.”

He takes a deep breath and his face is once again the chilly mobster we’ve all come to know. “Our deal is done.” He takes a photo from his jacket and hands it to me. “Remember, you owe me a favor. Anywhere, anytime. I’ll be in touch when I want to collect.”

Without another word, he walks away, leaving me reeling with the news.

My uncle—the harmless, loving man I often wished was my father instead of my real dad—is in a society formed on blackmail? Why would he need to join such a thing? He’s a Vaughn—we’re in the top one percent of wealth in the country. He can get whatever he wants without resorting to clandestine methods.

Questions hammer inside my mind, the nausea churning, the waves higher and higher. My fingers shaking, I turn over the photo.

And there he is, his face flushed, tie askew, hair mussed, his arms slung around another man.

I make out the small logo on the cocktail napkin in his hand.

Hotel Renegade, New York City.

The time stamp, October 5 th , seven and a half years ago.