Chapter 2 - The Aftermath in the Office
The heavy mahogany doors of the private office on the top floor of the Velvet Tide muffled the ambient thumping of the bass from the club below, but they couldn't shut out the palpable tension radiating through the room.
Lucas Hale stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his silhouette dark against the neon glare of Ashford Bay’s nocturnal skyline. His right hand remained closed tightly around the small silver paper crane in his pocket. Every time his thumb brushed the intricate folds of the metal, a jolt of raw memory rippled through his nervous system. Twelve years. Twelve long, brutal years since he had looked into eyes that possessed this exact, unflinching shade of amber-brown.
Behind him, Theodore "Teddy" Voss shifted uncomfortably, his heavy bulk casting a long shadow across the Persian rug. Teddy had managed Lucas’s operations for nearly a decade; he knew every twitch of his boss's jaw, every shift in weight that signaled an impending execution or a hostile takeover. But tonight, Teddy was entirely out of his depth.
"She’s in the medical suite downstairs, Boss," Teddy said, his voice low and cautious. "Dr. Mercer checked her over. Scraped knees, minor shock, a sprained wrist from the fall, but nothing broken. She refused the pain medication."
Lucas didn't turn around. "Refused?"
"Spat it into the wastebasket," Teddy replied, shaking his head. "Said she didn't want anything from us. Then she demanded her purse, her tips, and her immediate back pay so she could catch the last ferry to the mainland. Said if we tried to stop her, she’d scream bloody murder until every cop within three counties swarmed the block."
A bitter, humorless smile touched the corners of Lucas’s mouth. "Spirited. Just like her mother."
Teddy blinked, stepping forward. "Her mother? Boss, you know who she is?"
"Not her directly," Lucas said, finally turning away from the window. The ambient blue light from the city caught the silver threading at his temples and the hard planes of a face carved from years of street survival. "Her mother was Elena Vance. A nurse at Ashford General twelve years ago. The woman who pulled me out of a dumpster alley behind the emergency ward when my own crew left me for dead with three rounds in my chest and a shattered femur."
Teddy stared, his eyes widening. "The one who gave you the...?" He gestured vaguely toward Lucas's pocket.
"The very same," Lucas said, walking toward his oak desk. He sank into his leather chair, resting his elbows on the surface and lacing his fingers together. "I spent years trying to track Elena down after I consolidated the docks. By the time my people found her records, she had passed away from an aggressive lung illness. Left behind a husband who drank himself to death within a year, and a ten-year-old daughter."
"And that daughter," Teddy said, comprehension dawning with a sickening sense of irony, "ended up waiting tables in your flagship nightclub."
"Not just waiting tables," Lucas muttered, his gaze dropping to the blotter on his desk. "Working a double shift because her younger brother needs specialized physical therapy for a congenital hip condition. A condition that costs four thousand dollars a month out of pocket. That’s why she was working here. That’s why she was exhausted, snapping at Frank Doyle when he tried to cop a feel, and why she called me a monster to my face when I defended my establishment's honor without knowing the full picture."
Teddy scratched the back of his neck, wincing. "Frank Doyle. Speaking of that piece of trash..."
"What about him?" Lucas's voice dropped an octave, the temperature in the room plunging instantly.
"He’s downstairs in the breakroom, waiting for his shift review," Teddy said. "He thinks you called him up to chew him out for letting a waitress make a scene in the lobby. He doesn't know about the dog. He doesn't know about the crane."
Lucas stood up, smoothing the front of his charcoal jacket with slow, deliberate precision. "Bring him up. And bring Quinn Beckett up with him. I want them both in this room in five minutes."
"Boss, are you sure about bringing her back up here?" Teddy warned gently. "She looked at you like you were a rabid animal down on the pavement. She’s not going to listen to apologies."
"I’m not going to apologize, Teddy," Lucas said coldly as he reached into his drawer and pulled out a heavy, dark-barreled Sig Sauer P226, checking the magazine before sliding it into his shoulder holster. "I’m going to clean house."
Ten minutes later, the double doors swung open.
Frank Doyle walked in first, smelling faintly of cheap cologne and stale bourbon, wearing his usual greasy, ingratiating smirk. "Boss! You wanted to see me? Look, about that little blonde brat downstairs—she’s got no respect, Lucas. I was just trying to keep her in line, you know how these girls get when they think they're—"
Frank stopped dead as his eyes adjusted to the lighting and he saw Quinn standing just behind him, flanked by two of Lucas's largest enforcers.
Quinn’s hair was tied back in a messy knot. Her uniform was torn at the left shoulder where she had hit the pavement, and a white bandage wrapped around her right wrist. Her amber eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but as she looked at Frank, they burned with an intensity that made the floor manager swallow hard.
And then she looked at Lucas.
Her chin came up. Not an inch of submission in her posture.
"Why am I here?" Quinn demanded, her voice shaking only slightly with adrenaline. "You had your fun. Your giant dog terrorized me, I scraped my body across your concrete, and I’ve made it very clear I’m quitting. Hand over my wages or let me walk, Hale. I don't have time for your syndicate games."
Frank’s jaw dropped. He whipped his head around to stare at Quinn, then back at Lucas, utter disbelief written across his bloated face. "You... you talked to the Boss like that? You little bitch, I ought to—"
Frank never finished the sentence.
Lucas didn't yell. He didn't slam his fist on the desk. He simply took two steps forward and struck Frank across the face with the heavy brass-weighted handle of a ledger book sitting on his table. The impact sent Frank crashing backward into the mahogany bookcase, books spilling over his shoulders as he slid to the floor, clutching a bleeding nose.
"You don't curse in my presence," Lucas said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "And you certainly don't threaten a guest in my office."
Frank groaned, spitting blood onto the Persian rug. "Boss... what are you... she’s just a waitress—!"
"She is the daughter of the woman who saved my life twelve years ago," Lucas cut him off, every word ringing like a death knell through the silent room.
Frank froze, his eyes bulging.
Lucas turned his gaze to Quinn, who was staring at him in absolute shock, her lips parted. She looked from Lucas to the silver crane resting visibly on the corner of his desk, then back to his face.
"You..." Quinn whispered. "You were the guy in the alley."
"I was," Lucas said, his rigid posture softening just a fraction—an admission of vulnerability he hadn't shown another living soul in a decade. "Your mother gave me that crane when I had nothing left to lose. And yesterday, because of my own arrogance and blindness, I let my dog chase her daughter down the street."
He walked slowly toward Quinn, stopping three feet away, careful not to crowd her space.
"Frank Doyle has been skimming from the register for six months and running a predatory sweep on every female employee under his command," Lucas said, looking directly into Quinn's eyes. "He leaves tonight. Not in a cab, and not with his legs intact. Teddy will handle that."
Frank let out a whimper from the floor. "Boss, please—!"
"Shut him up," Lucas told Teddy without looking back. Teddy grabbed Frank by the collar of his shirt and hauled him out of the room, slamming the heavy doors shut behind them.
Left alone with Quinn in the cavernous office, Lucas reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a thick, heavy manila envelope, placing it gently on the edge of his desk.
"What is that?" Quinn asked suspiciously, crossing her arms over her bruised chest.
"Twelve years of interest," Lucas said quietly. "Your brother’s medical bills at the Ashford Rehabilitation Center are paid in full for the next five years. Starting tomorrow morning, you don't work double shifts. You don't clean tables for ungrateful drunks. And if anyone in this city ever looks at you sideways, you call this number." He slid a heavy, engraved silver card across the desk toward her.
Quinn stared at the envelope, then at the card, and finally up at the most dangerous man in Ashford Bay. Her hands trembled as she reached out, not for the money, but for the silver paper crane that still sat beside his blotter.
She picked it up, her fingers brushing his.
May you like
"I don't charity, Lucas," she said, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.
"It’s not charity," Lucas replied, his eyes dark with an intensity that made her breath catch. "It’s a debt. And for the first time in my life, I intend to pay every cent of it back."
