I spot Harold Harvey holding court over by the fireplace. His silver hairis slicked back in a valiant but doomed effort to hide the bald spot. He’s skinny for an alpha, but he makes up for it with enough dominance and swagger that being near him too long feels like a low-grade migraine. It puts my inner alpha on edge.
He catches me looking at him and immediately beelines my way.
I suppress a groan.There goes flying under the radar.
“Mark,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “glad to see you could make it tonight. I know how hard you work for the borough.”
“Of course, Mr. Mayor. I wouldn’t miss it,” I reply with a practiced, easy smile.
I’m taller than him, and it makes me think of Ava. She never seems bothered by our height difference, just tips her chin up and looks me square in the eye as if we are evenly matched. Harvey, on the other hand, hates having to look up at me. You can see it in the set of his jaw and the way he takes a step back to make it less noticeable. He could learn a thing or two from her. Hell, all of us could, really. No one has as much confidence as Ava Kendrick.
“How are things going down at the office?” he asks. “That Kendrick girl still a thorn in your side? Your win record was a lot better before she came along.” His grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and I recognize the jab for what it is—an insinuation that I’m not doing my job properly.
“She’s tough,” I admit. “Sharp as they come. Runs circles around almost every attorney I know.”And she’d skin you alive without ruining herdesigner shoes, I add silently.
“She’s trouble,” Harvey corrects flatly. “Mark, if you have aspirations past this borough, you’ll want to watch how often you lose to her. Voters don’t like a man who looks weak against a woman. Especially not one who spends half her time grandstanding about omega rights.”
“Luckily, I win as many as I lose,” I counter, polite smile still in place, “which I’ve heard is doing wonders for the ratings on your NYTV project. A great idea, by the way—bringing the average citizen into the inner workings of our justice system.”
I leave off the part about how Harvey’s office carefully selects which cases go on air. The cases with Ava pull the best numbers, but they also tend to make the NYPD look bad; therefore, they’re limited.
For just a second, Harvey’s expression tightens, as if he isn’t sure if I just complimented him or needled him. Then he lets out a smooth laugh, loud enough for others to hear, and claps my shoulder again, harder this time.
“Gentleman,” he booms, steering me toward a circle of older men in expensive suits, “you all know Mark Taylor, correct? Our sharp young DA. A hell of a fighter for the people of this city.”
As I shake everyone’s hands, I recognize a few of the faces. There’s Robert Hargreeve, the chair of Public Safety. Victor Langston, a real estate developer and major donor of Harvey’s. Franklin Otero, head of the Police Benevolent Association. And the one I’m most interested in, Martin Kline—a venturecapitalist that I’ve heard is growing dissatisfied with Harvey and has a history of bankrolling campaigns.
A couple of men nod, a few grunt something about good work. I’ve been in enough rooms like this to know most of them don’t give a damn about me, they just want to see where Harvey’s putting his chips.
“New York needs powerful men willing to stand together,” Harvey says, putting his hand on me and squeezing to stress the line. “Men who understand the responsibility that comes with being an alpha in this city.”
The group hums in agreement, a couple of them raising glasses. I take a sip of my drink, mostly to keep from saying something I’ll regret. The responsibility of being an alpha? What the fuck does that even mean? My inner alpha practically recoils from the posturing.
Harvey squeezes my shoulder again, and I glance sideways at his hand. If he doesn’t knock it off, I’m going to rip the damn thing from his arm, future mayoral run be damned. I’m not sure if he senses it or not, but he drops it back down to his side.
“That’s what I aim for, mayor,” I say firmly. “Strength. Integrity. Doing right by the people. As an alpha should.”
It’s a bullshit line. We all know it. But it gets the polite chuckles and nods I’m aiming for and reminds Harvey that I can play the game too. He bristles, and I hide my smile.
“Mr. Mayor, a picture?” one of his staff members says to our side, and we both turn. When the camera flashes, I know the picture it captures isn’t the truth. Harvey and I front andcenter, smiling and looking like we are cut from the same cloth. He’ll use it against me later when I’m running against him. Nothing to be done about that now.
I became a lawyer because I grew up watching people get left behind and told it was their own fault. No jobs to speak of, no industry, you drove thirty minutes to work or the grocery store, the school was underfunded, and the message from every direction was that this was just how it was. I got out. A lot of people I grew up with didn’t.
I moved to California, then New York, thinking things would be different. In a lot of ways, they are. But some things hold true from sea to shining sea. Families priced out of their homes by greedy landlords. Kids in the Bronx in crumbling classrooms with outdated books, same as back home. Parents choosing between childcare and rent. The details changed, but the overall pattern didn’t.
That’s why I want the mayor’s office. Not because New York is the biggest stage, though it is. If you can fix it here, you can prove it’s fixable anywhere. Freeze the rent on stabilized units so families aren’t one lease renewal away from losing everything. Put real funding into childcare so a parent can hold down a job and advance their career. Hold the police accountable instead of just defending them on principle.
I know what it looks like when a system decides people aren’t worth the investment. I grew up in it. I’m not interested in presiding over another version of it.
So I’ll play Harvey’s game. For now.
Chapter Three
Ava
There’s a firm knock on my office door, and I lift my head from the file I’ve been reviewing. “Come in,” I call.
Shelby opens the door, guiding in a woman slightly older than myself—mid-to-late thirties, I’d guess, with red bags under her eyes like she’s done a lot of crying recently. She clutches her purse strap so tightly, her knuckles are white, and she looks around my sleek corner office as if she’s stumbled into a different world.
