Devon

After dropping Victoria at the Four Seasons, she literally consumes my thoughts for the remainder of the evening. The fact that I killed not only an Irish Mobster, but a long-standing member, creeps into my thoughts momentarily, but it’s quickly replaced by visions of her bound to that damn table. Settling into bed, I grab my MacBook and type Victoria Lynn, Manhattan into the search field. There are jewelry designers, actresses, and all sorts of random social media links. I refine my search to Victoria Lynn, Attorney, Manhattan and briefly think I’ve struck gold until I click the link and am introduced to a woman who looks nothing like her. I click on Google Images and scan through hundreds of pictures, looking for anyone resembling her. Nothing. It appears that the mysterious woman who has taken Devon City by storm is nowhere to be found.

Tossing the computer aside, I hit the lights and close my eyes in search of some much-needed rest. Immediately, the vision of those creamy, well-muscled thighs being restrained by nylon ropes floods back into my consciousness. Disappointed that I haven’t been able to locate a single reference regarding her, I make several failed attempts to drift off to sleep. Unfortunately, filthy thoughts of that feisty little beauty make sleeping impossible. There are those rare occasions when a man must take care of business on his own just to ensure some sleep. What follows is the most intense release of unrelenting lust in recent memory, after which, I sleep like a baby. Who is this woman? is my final thought before finally losing consciousness.

* * *

A meeting with city commissioners the following morning, lunch with the mayor, and nearly three hours spent with architects keep me so busy that I really haven’t had a chance to think about Victoria. It’s important to meet with each developer to make sure their plans are in accordance with my vision for a state-of-the-art yet eclectic downtown. As soon as my meetings wrap up, I receive a reminder text from Felix regarding our appointment with a young man named Josh Glavine. It concerns his monthly payment. Within minutes, my black Escalade appears and the three of us are taken to our first enforcement appointment.

Mr. Glavine recently added a craft brewery to his restaurant and leased a sizable chunk of space from one of my associates in the adjacent building. During his expansion, we graciously gave him a break on his monthly payments, but now, he is refusing to pay despite having a strong cash flow.

“Is there a reason you don’t feel the need to contribute to the cause?” I ask as Tiny, Felix, and I walk in through the back door of his establishment, catching him off-guard.

“Hey, man, I’m putting my life savings at risk here,” he fires back defensively. “It’s going to be twenty years before I’m out of debt and it’ll take an extra ten if you guys keep gouging me.” His eyes dart back and forth between the three of us.

“And that’s my problem?” I ask, coming around and standing directly in front of him. “Why don’t you take a seat?” I nudge him backward onto a wooden chair that Tiny slid behind his knees. Tiny and Felix immediately position themselves on either side of him. “You knew the fucking deal when you expanded. We couldn’t have been clearer on how things were going to work. Now, I’m going to have to introduce you to our justice system.” I pull the chrome revolver from my jacket pocket and click the latch, releasing the cylinder. “Have you ever played Russian Roulette?”

“No!” he yells, trying to jump from the chair, but he’s quickly suppressed by my two associates. “I have a family. The money is in the safe. I’ll get it for you.”

“Well, part of me is glad to hear that you have the money, but another part of me is wondering why in the hell you would risk your life over something as simple as paying your debts?” I remove five bullets from the chamber and drop them into my jacket pocket. After showing him the one remaining bullet, I step around Tiny and move in behind Josh. I latch the chamber and give it a spin, holding it out for him to see. “Since this is your first violation, you have a five in six chance of walking away.” After the chamber comes to a stop, I press the barrel of the gun to the back of his skull.

“Don’t do it,” he sobs, shaking uncontrollably.

“If I let you get way with this, then I’ll have to do the same for everyone,” I explain in a voice of reason. “That’s no way to run things. Taxes are mandatory in Devon City.”

“God . . . please don’t.” He continues to cry like an infant. I find myself feeling a bit repulsed to see such behavior from a grown man. I push the barrel firmly against the back of his skull and pull the trigger. The sensation of the hammer closing, along with the loud snapping sound, causes him to scream and leap from the chair. “Fucking A, you actually did it? You crazy fuck!” he yells, flailing around like a child throwing a tantrum.

“It’s your lucky day, Josh.” I give him a broad smile. “Now go get my money unless you want to play again. The odds of winning the second round are only sixty-six percent.”

“I’ll get it, for Christ’s sake! Just give me a fucking minute here.” He continues to jump around, shaking his head like a lunatic. “I’ve never come that close to death. I’ll get your fucking money.” The three of us stay put while Josh flees to the back room to get the cash.

“Everyone gets one free pass,” I whisper to the boys, showing them the sixth bullet which had been concealed in my left hand. “Don’t breathe a word,” I add, giving each of them a stern look.

“You got it, Boss,” both men reply in unison, seeming a bit relieved that there hadn’t been a live round in the chamber. In Josh’s mind, there had been a one in six chance of dying, and that’s all that matters. Not only would he never miss another payment, but word of his near-death experience would undoubtedly spread like wildfire. It was unlikely that anyone would be challenging us soon. Two minutes later, we are walking out the front door with ten grand in cash, leaving Josh fifteen minutes to clean up and change his underwear before opening for the evening.

“I’m glad you played it that way, Boss,” Tiny confides as soon as we are out on the sidewalk. “He makes a really great oatmeal stout,” he adds, revealing the source of his empathy.

“Yeah, that new IPA is pretty good too,” I agree. You don’t have to be ruthless as long as everyone believes you are. After teaching Josh and taking out the Irishman yesterday, my reputation is solid for the moment. “I’m starved. Let’s go see what Jacques has for us tonight. I heard him bragging earlier about his amazing braised lamb shank.”

Victoria

I spend the entire day negotiating the expansion of a 300,000-square foot warehouse that serves the Philly-DC corridor. Things would be so much simpler if they didn’t have to run the food service business as a cover. Food service requires a hell of a lot more space than cocaine, but the feds have made it clear that everything needs to look completely legit on the surface. I guess from the standpoint of the public, it gives everyone comfort to see someone in uniform delivering boxes of chicken fingers, even if the bottom contains a key of the purest cocaine you can source in the states.

Once the chicken fingers are in the hands of the local restaurateurs, the distribution risk is completely on them. They are free to cut the product to market and distribute it in whatever way they see fit. They know the local markets and have the dealer network to get the product to the final customer. Depending on whether they have high-end or low-end clients, the final purity of the product is often as low as twenty percent, creating a huge profit margin. If the end users knew what they were actually ingesting, they would be pissed as hell. Fortunately, no one at that end of the supply chain ever does any purity testing. As long as the customer gets high and the dealers make money, everyone is happy.

The entire eastern seaboard has belonged to a New York-based consortium ever since they established their own supply chain back in the early nineties to fill the vacuum left by Pablo Escobar’s death. Unlike Pablo, these guys have always maintained an ultra-low profile. You’ve never heard any of their names, and even if you scour the far reaches of the internet, you will never run across a single picture or article referring to any of the members. This silent group is responsible for supplying roughly forty percent of this nation’s cocaine and derivatives. They control every step of the process from the time the coca leaves are picked until the pure crystalline powder is in the distributors’ hands stateside. By laundering everything through the largest privately held food service company, taxes are paid on all the illicit profits, and this allows them to funnel excess cash into investments and a sprawling real estate empire. The low-profile approach, combined with the billions of tax dollars paid each year, has created a bulletproof relationship with the U.S. Government. After all, tax evasion has been the key tool used by the feds to take down rackets going all the way back to Al Capone. In that light, it’s kind of ridiculous not to give the government their cut in order to insure long-term prosperity.

A smile crosses my face as my limo pulls up to the club and the first person I see is Devon, who proceeds to open the car door for me. “Do you personally greet all of your guests, or am I just special?” Again, he looks like a million bucks in a black Italian suit and matching tie. The contrasting light blue dress shirt really brings out his cobalt blue eyes.

“I just stepped out for a little air and recognized the car from yesterday.” He flashes a sexy smile and glances into the back seat, giving my bodyguards a nod. “I’ll keep an eye on her so she doesn’t end up in any trouble tonight.”

I giggle at the thought of him thinking that he had saved me from something the previous evening. But, without a word, I take his arm and allow him to escort me into the club. “What’s on the menu tonight?” I ask, the aroma teasing my senses before he even opens the door.

“Braised lamb shank,” he replies, holding the door for me like a true gentleman. “Are you joining me for dinner tonight?”

“A working dinner,” I reply, setting the tone. “We need to discuss your plans for the next year. I want to know where you see your business going from here.” The smile immediately evaporates from his face. “Trust me. I can save you a ton of hassle.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m a little leery of a female attorney who needs to be accompanied by three professional bodyguards.” He raises an eyebrow and gestures toward the back of the club. Several sets of eyes follow us as we make our way back to his office. “We’re going to need some privacy,” he informs the others as we approach.

“You got it, boss.” Felix immediately rises from his chair and motions for the others to pick up their plates. “Join me in the conference room,” he instructs them. Within a matter of seconds, the stage is clear and a server is cleaning a table for us in the rear corner.

“Everyone jumps when you say the word,” I comment, admiring the way he carries himself. “I admire a man who knows how to run a tight ship.”

“It’s important to set the tone right from the beginning,” he replies, pulling out a chair for me. “I’ve seen what happens to organizations that have weak leadership. I knew that if I was going to successfully turn this city around, it was going to take a strong hand. It’s easier to begin by ruling with an iron fist and then lighten up a little down the road.”

“And if there is a need for enforcement, just be sure to keep it on the down-low,” I reply, passing along one of the keys to the business. “The less visible you are, the better off you’ll be. It’s okay to showboat a bit in the privacy of your club, but trust me—keep an ultra-low profile in public.”

He pauses, his eyes scanning my face as if he’s searching for clues. “Who are you?”

“Just between you and me . . . I’m a princess,” I whisper. “So I expect to be treated like one. Where the hell is that lamb shank? It smells amazing!”

“Coming right up,” he replies, snapping his fingers in the air. “I love your style, but not knowing who the hell you are is really starting to irritate me.”

“I’m Victoria Lynn, an attorney from Manhattan.” I curl the edge of my lips and look him straight in the eyes. “There’s nothing more to it. I’m single, I turn twenty-eight on Friday, I love mixed martial arts, and right now, I’m starving because I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Within a minute of his snapping his fingers, our meals and two glasses of Chianti are placed in front of us. “Mixed martial arts, huh? That would explain those killer legs. I turned thirty a couple of weeks ago.”

“On May twenty-first,” I reply with a giggle. The look of annoyance that crosses his face is priceless. His inability to find the slightest tidbit of information about me has to be incredibly frustrating. If the roles were reversed, it would be killing me. After all, I have a two-inch thick file on his entire family going back to the day his great-grandfather landed at Ellis Island in nineteen hundred. His ancestors were poor farmers from southern Italy, which is where the information trail ends. After getting his bearings in the states, his great-grandfather owned a bar in Brooklyn before moving to Michigan a year into prohibition. He quickly established an underground club and made a fortune running moonshine down from Canada. His long, rich family history makes him an extremely desirable associate. That and the fact that he is the sexiest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on. I could get used to waking up to this face every morning.