The Red Velvet Bar at the Bellagio is one of the most opulent rooms in Vegas—velvet banquettes, gold-leaf ceilings, and a chandelier so big, if it ever falls, the entire continent would shake. I don’t own the place, and I like drinking here for that exact reason. Sometimes even a man like me needs a room he can walk into without being treated like a deity.
‘Hartmann,’ Marcus Rhodes, my childhood best friend, calls from a corner booth, lifting two fingers at the bartender like he owns the joint. He doesn’t. He’s a lawyer—one of the best in the country, but god does he know it. If he wasn’t so funny, so loyal, so damn good at what he does, he’d be a pain in my ass—mostly because he has no problem calling me out on my bullshit. Most people walk on eggshells around me. Not Marcus. Not when we’ve known each other our entire lives.
He stands to greet me, clapping a hand to my shoulder. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Thanks.’ Who needs enemies, with friends like him?
His brows furrow as he takes me in. ‘Seriously, man, sometimes I worry about you.’
‘I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.’
‘That happens.’ He shakes his head, but there’s a hint of admiration behind his designer glasses. ‘When you start a war with a family almost as powerful as your own.’
‘Almostbeing the key word in that sentence.’ Although it dawns on me then, they have something I’ll never have—they have each other—a real family.
The Becketts aren’t trying to uphold the legacy of their deceased father. By all accounts Alexander Beckett is alive and well. The Becketts aren’t being hauled up in rehab.
The only family member left fighting for my family is me.
What a sad and depressing thought.
I push it away before it can take hold. ‘Is it done?’ I slide into the booth opposite him. He motions the server to bring over two bourbons. Marcus pulls a folder from his briefcase and slides it across the table.
‘Barcelona,’ he says with the same self-satisfied smirk he’s worn since we were sixteen and got arrested for street racing our parents’ Porsches. ‘Paperwork’s through. Fully executed. You officially own the waterfront site.’
Satisfaction rolls through me.
‘Good.’
‘Good?’ He snorts. ‘More like savage. Ruthless even. You weren’t even interested in Spain until you found out the Becketts wanted it.’
A pretty waitress appears with our drinks, placing them on the table. I lift my glass and drink deeply. The bourbon burns the way I need it to. ‘They brought war to my door.’
‘And you retaliated by stealing a project out from under all their noses. James Beckett reportedly wanted Barcelona for a new distillery. Caelon wanted the hotel. Rian wanted the bar. You basically fucked the entire family in the ass at once.’
‘Good,’ I repeat, leaning back. ‘Now they’ll know how it feels.’
‘Revenge really is your love language.’ He shakes his head again.
‘All is fair in love and war.’ I shrug.
He studies me for a moment—longer than I like. Marcus is perceptive as hell. ‘I told Letitia you’d say something like that.’
Letitia is Marcus’s long-suffering wife.
‘I swear, there’s more to life than work, man. Marriage is like having a best friend you get to fuck whenever you like. You should find someone. Settle down. No wonder you look tired. All you do is work.’
‘I went on holiday this year.’ I remind him.
‘A working holiday to escape your family. It doesn’t count.’
‘What if I told you I met a woman there, and I didn’t open my laptop once after she let me into her bed?’
Marcus’s eyes double in size. ‘Bullshit.’
I hold his gaze, unwaveringly.
‘Well, who is she?’ he marvels, scratching his sandy coloured hair.
