“He wants to ‘show you around,’” Cal quotes. “That’s not networking. That’s a date.”
“It’s nothing. I’m not even going.”
“You should,” Jace says, surprising me.
I turn to stare at him. “What?”
“You should have coffee with him. He’s a valuable connection. His operation interfaces with ours. Building a personal rapport makes sense strategically.” His smile is sharp. “We’ll come with you. Not to the coffee. But nearby. Just in case Ryan Matthews forgets that touching your arm too many times was what got him relocated six years ago.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
“I need to head out,” Charles says, checking his watch again. “Jace, you’ve got the afternoon schedule?”
“Dents at two. Ramirezes at three-thirty. McCoys at five.” Jace’s voice is all business now. “Standard operational check-ins. Parker will be observing, assessing, and building rapport.”
“And I’ll be monitoring remotely,” Cal adds, pulling out his phone. “Any tech issues, security feeds, background checks—I’m on it.”
“Good.” Charles claps Jace on the shoulder, then turns to me. “Remember what I said. Show them who you are.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left standing in the boardroom with three men who just watched another man flirt with me and are clearly not over it.
“Right,” Jace says, all business. “We’ve got an hour before the Dents meeting. You should review their files, understand the operation, and prepare questions.”
“I’ve already reviewed the files,” I say. “Multiple times. I know the Dents run five restaurants, the Ramirezes handle luxury car sales with political connections, and the McCoys own three clubs for surveillance and cash flow.”
“Then you’re prepared.” He studies me. “How are you feeling about this? About going in without Charles?”
“Terrified,” I admit. “But ready. I think.”
“You’re more than ready,” Cal says. “You just made Ryan Matthews and his team rethink their entire expansion strategy in under five minutes. You can handle some old men who think they know everything.”
I take a breath. Then another.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do this.”
Cal grins. “That’s our girl.”
And despite everything—despite the nerves, the pressure, the weight of three men watching me like I’m something precious they’re terrified of losing—I find myself smiling back.
25
SILAS
The McCoy club sits in the warehouse district—all exposed brick and pretentious industrial lighting, the kind of place that charges fifty dollars for a cocktail and calls it atmosphere. We’re in the back office, third floor, where McCoy conducts his real business away from the bass-thumping masses below.
Parker sits across from Devon McCoy, spine straight, hands folded on the table. Professional. Composed. Every inch the Chief Strategic Officer, even though I can see the tension in her shoulders.
McCoy is fifty-something, all silver hair and expensive cologne, the kind of man who thinks money makes him untouchable. His clubs are profitable—three venues that move significant cash while providing surveillance opportunities on targets too drunk or high to notice cameras.
But McCoy is old school. The kind who sees women as decorative. Useful only for what they can provide between the sheets or behind the bar.
I stand against the wall, close enough to intervene, far enough to let Parker handle this. Jace flanks her other side, arms crossed, monitoring everything with that tactical assessment he’s perfected.
Cal’s voice crackles in our earpieces, quiet and amused. “Security feeds are clean. No surprises. Though McCoy’s got three guards stationed outside the door. Seems excessive for a friendly check-in.”
“Noted,” Jace murmurs.
Parker’s reviewing the quarterly reports McCoy provided—profit margins, operational costs, the legitimate business that hides everything else. Her fingers trace down columns of numbers while McCoy watches with thinly veiled impatience.
