The shadows of the unused wing conceal me, just as I planned. There are no lights up here, just the glow from down below, which is just how I like it.

Why should I waste my time mingling among the players on stage when I can be the director, up here in the shadows until the right moment for my cameo?

The velvet rope across the stairs to the upper floor sends a tasteful but pointed point to the people down below, giving me the privacy I want.

I sip my glass of Seleccion Suprema, enjoying the subtle tones of the fine tequila while watching Thomas Goldstone storm out of the library, the governor outraged and his little tramp of a daughter staring dark murder at him. It’s exactly what I wanted.

“Scurry home, Golden Boy,” I whisper, sipping my drink again. “Storm out of here, showing the whole world your weakness.”

I’ve studied my adversary from afar for years, ever since The Golden Boy turned his attention from minor league playing the market and posting dramatic percentage gains to actually slinging weight in Roseboro.

I’ll admit, I underestimated him at first. I laughed when Goldstone established his first ‘headquarters’ and even rented him the first building. The old three-story building had sat empty for awhile, caught in that gap between small business and big business and too difficult to divide up. I figured it could come to some use at least that way, but I’d thought Goldstone would crash and burn after a few years.

Little did I expect to have to look out of my office window to see Goldstone’s own building, nearly as tall as my own, every morning.

I shake my head, wondering where I’d gone wrong. It should have taken him another decade or more to get to where he is now. It makes no logical sense for the Golden Boy, at just over half my age, to have already closed the gap on me so quickly.

I’d run the numbers and taken the time to double-check the figures personally . . . and knew the day after Goldstone cut the ribbon on that shining monstrosity a mile from my own tower that if I didn’t do something to destroy Thomas Goldstone, he’d steal my throne as the richest man in Roseboro.

Goldstone is poised to relegate me to the list of also-rans, the men who were big but not the biggest.

History remembers Secretariat, not the horses who finished second behind him.

I have no intention of ending my life as anything other than the undisputed master of my domain. Some may call me a dictator . . . but at least they’ll remember me.

And so I plot, and tonight, I confirmed a suspicion I’ve had for a long time. Thomas Goldstone’s infamous temper is very real and rather raw when it comes to beautiful women.

He didn’t show it outwardly, and I’ll give him that much. There was no yelling, no screaming like I’ve heard rumors about. But to just impetuously pull his arm away from Governor Langlee like that? Ill-advised, to say the least.

I chuckle and watch the governor console his stupid, status-seeking daughter while trying to get the focus back on tonight’s charity cause.

Men’s dress shoes click on the tile flooring of the landing. I refuse to let my wing of the library be sullied with anything as plebeian as fuzzy carpet like Goldstone has in the children’s wing. There’s a reason they’re called rugrats, after all.

Still, the shadows are so thick that even up close, I know the man can’t see my face clearly, although the obsidian cufflinks on my tuxedo clearly reveal my identity.

Not too many people can pull off obsidian and platinum cufflinks while not mingling with the crowd.

“Sir, I assume you saw that?”

My operative is dressed like most of the men downstairs, in a suit that is appropriate for the evening but not a tuxedo. No, only the crème de la crème are wearing tuxedos, and I need my man to stay anonymous.

Which, in many respects, is very hard to do in a gossipy upper-crust crowd who eyes any newcomer with scrutiny and obvious analysis of their financial bearing. And unfortunately, my operative is as status-hungry as the governor’s daughter, in his own way.

Not quite a peacock . . . but definitely not a chameleon. He’s not quite seeking recognition though, which is useful to me. I need a snake, not a chameleon.

“Of course,” I reply after a moment of savoring my tequila. Forget the flavoring, the mixings. Just let me savor the oaky vanilla tones of the extra anejo tequila while the agave essence sort of plays in my nose. “It went well.”

“I apologize that he didn’t leave with the girl. When I pointed her in his direction, I assumed he’d—”

“Never assume anything,” I say, looking over at the man. Intelligent, and with striking eyes that most people assume is a product of his upbringing. I know different, and know the fire inside them burns with hatred for Thomas Goldstone. Yes, he’s definitely not a chameleon.

But he’s not half the hunter he thinks he is, either.

He expects that by playing Judas to Goldstone, he will garner himself favor with me. I can’t blame him for the blossoming hope, since I planted the seed myself and have watered it with unspoken promises over these past few months.

The man has a future, as long as he keeps his eyes open. The very same knife he’s helping me to slip into Thomas Goldstone can quickly be turned on him as well if he decides to think beyond what he’s told.

“It doesn’t matter. The Golden Boy has shown his weakness. All that glitters isn’t gold.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

I sigh and finish off my tequila. Perhaps my operative isn’t quite as smart as he pretends to be. But at the same time, it reassures me. The man isn’t smart enough to realize he’s being played.

For a man who is betraying his employer, he still has an ironic blind spot. He’s not very good at planning, just executing the plans of others.

“Piece of advice. There is a time when you set up, and plan, and project, and scheme. But there comes a time to just push that first domino and see what happens. Knowing when to do each . . . that’s power.”

My man says nothing, watching as the governor clears his throat and the party starts back up, tension starting to melt away . . . but I can see that many people won’t forget the scene Goldstone created.

Least of all, the governor.

“Sir . . . what shall we do about him?” my man asks. “Any man confident enough to just walk away from Governor Langlee like that . . .”

I can’t help but grin as I think through my plans. Goldstone is on his way to becoming a large enough problem that drastic measures will need to be used. It’s not that I’m averse to that methodology, and in fact, I’ve nurtured a healthy relationship with operatives beyond the law.

But I prefer to stick with the quieter approach I’ve plotted, so as not to draw more attention to the famous Golden Boy.

I want the man crushed . . . not a martyr.

And there are so many, many ways to cut your enemy’s legs out from under him. Quiet or loud, mercilessly or kindly, with confrontation or from the shadows.

“I have an idea . . . but for now, enjoy the party. After all, you have connections to make yourself, yes?”