“And now in happier news, Thomas Goldstone, head of Goldstone Inc, seems to have found the magic touch again, this time not in business but in his personal life. He has just announced his engagement to Mia Karakova. The couple made headlines just weeks ago—”

My thumb jabs at the remote control, turning off the TV, casting my office almost totally into shadow. Other than the bloody sunset coming in behind my desk, there’s almost no light in the room. It helps me think.

How did my plan go awry? I’d set things up so carefully, years of work slowly ratcheting up the pressure on the Golden Boy, cultivating the connection with Bill Radcliffe, the vengeful Goldstone employee . . . and now my plans lay in ruins.

The hospital announced yesterday that they were accepting Thomas Goldstone’s offer, and Goldstone Health is now a reality. Thomas Goldstone’s star is even brighter than it was before, and I can already feel the sun setting on my empire like it’s setting now outside his building.

My desk phone rings, and I pick it up, knowing select few have this number. “Yes?”

“Sir, please, you have to help me,” Bill Radcliffe’s pathetic voice hisses in my ear. Yes, he served his country, but obviously, men change. “I don’t know what else to do. I’ve stayed loyal. I didn’t mention your name. Yet. But they’re saying they can pin the Chinese deal on me . . . that’s real prison time. They’re talking years if I can’t give them something.”

I growl, knowing exploitation when I hear it. “Do not threaten me. An attorney, a good one, mind you, has already been provided for you. That is contingent upon two things. One, you will keep your mouth shut. You will never say my name to anyone. Not the police, not a lawyer, yours or otherwise, not even in your sleep. And two, you will never contact me again. You do these two things, and the attorney will do what he can for you. You choose any other option, and you will not be enjoying Federal custody for long.”

I hang up before he can respond and sit back, tapping my desk. The grandfather clock against the wall starts to chime, and just as the sixth bong gets somehow swallowed by the cavernous air in my office, the outer door opens and my secretary walks in.

She approaches the desk slowly. “Sir, your evening appointment is here.”

“Show him in,” I command, watching her carefully.

“Of course, sir,” she replies, scurrying out. She’s dressed as provocatively as always, her curves on full display as she shows my appointment in, but I have to give the man credit, his eyes never acknowledge her as she leaves. It’s a good sign, considering the job I’m hiring him for.

For the target is very eye-catching, and this man must be able to resist such . . . primal urges.

“Mr. Blackwell,” the tall man says, his charming face and boy next door smile doing nothing to hide the ice in his eyes from my perception. I’ve built an empire on both light and shadows, and this man definitely knows the shadows. “It’s an honor. I’ve heard not too many people get invited to meet you here.”

“Not many are deserving,” I reply, standing up and going over to my wet bar, considering what to serve. “But for the man known as the Fallen Angel, well, exceptions can be made. Drink?”

“Absinthe, if you have it,” the man replies. A fine choice . . . unique, but certainly tasteful. “What is the nature of the job, Mr. Blackwell?”

“I recently had certain plans of mine backfire,” I explain carefully. Before I reveal any extra information, I want to know if this man is on my payroll or not. “Unfortunately, the main parties involved are, if not beyond my reach, at least high enough in notoriety that I do not want to risk stirring too many pots right now. But there is one person I want eliminated. Their death will send the right message to the right people.”

My guest nods, unperturbed by the macabre conversation. I have done my research thoroughly, how this seemingly charming man, as handsome as any television star, with a background that should make him a hero, has instead turned to such pursuits.

While he’s not the best in the underworld and definitely does not have the highest body count, his background and demeanor are unique. It’s given me leverage, for I just happen to know a few things that could help this man . . . if he does what I ask.

“I see. Hearts and minds?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Show them not to mess with you?”

“Something like that,” I admit. “This person’s death would rattle my enemy, tell certain people to shut their mouths, and also, quite frankly, please me to no end. They were only an instrument, but even an instrument shares some blame for the damage they cause.”

“Anything I should know? And before we proceed further, I assume they meet the aforementioned criteria I gave you?”

“That they do. And they aren’t well-protected or even aware that they could be a target. It should be easy to make it look like a tragic accident. An easy payday for you.”

The Fallen Angel nods and shifts as he takes the drink I hold out, swirling the glass for a moment before sipping. It’s a good absinthe, and he savors the flavor before speaking again.

“Understood. But you realize if I take the contract, I do it on my timetable?”

“I know that is how you operate, but I would prefer a faster resolution to this issue. Wait too long, and the message loses impact,” I tell him matter-of-factly.

“And the target?”

I cap the absinthe and pour myself a tequila before walking back over to my desk. Opening the lap drawer, I withdraw the photograph inside and slide it across the desk. It’s a good picture, framed properly to give the Fallen Angel a good image to work from.

“Her name is Isabella Turner.”