Page 123 of The Devil of Downtown

I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Fine. Bring the team in. We’re starting.”

Within minutes, the meeting table fills with senior execs, legal leads, M&A, and PR. Forty billion dollars of company movement sitting across from me, acting like we’re closing a lemonade stand acquisition instead of the most aggressive takeover our firm has ever attempted.

Julian drops into the seat beside mine, shooting me a look likeplease don’t verbally decapitate anyone today.

Bad timing.

“Alright,” I say, leaning back just a touch to project boredom, which always makes them nervous. “Walk me through the holdup.”

The head of mergers clears his throat. “We, uh... we think Bexley’s board will respond better if we slow the pressure on the—”

“Slow?” I cut in. “We’ve been dragging them across the finish line for weeks. I could’ve acquired three other companies in the time it’s taken these people to grow a spine.”

“Dane,” Julian warns.

“No,” I say, not looking at him. “Continue. Someone here must have a compelling reason we’re holding their hand through a deal they begged us to propose.”

The team exchange panicked glances. They hate it when I’m like this—controlled, clipped, too calm to be safe.

The PR director clears his throat. “The optics matter. Bexley’s CEO is... fragile. If we appear too forceful, it could hurt future negotiations.”

“Future negotiations,” I repeat, tasting the words. “I’m not negotiating with Bexley again. And if other companies want to interpret efficiency as aggression, they’re welcome to go bankrupt on their own timelines, not mine.”

Julian leans back, crossing his arms. “It’s better for the firm long-term if you handle this delicately. He’s right.”

I turn, pinning him with a look. “I handle everything delicately until incompetence forces me not to.”

No one speaks. They rarely do when I sound like this.

I lean forward. “Finalize the language. Push the board vote. I want the deal on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

Everyone scrambles to gather their papers.

“Meeting adjourned,” I say, not loud, but firm enough that the room empties in under ten seconds.

Julian waits until the last exec clears the doorway before blowing out a breath.

“What the fuck,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, “has crawled so far up your ass today that you’re taking chunks out of everyone?”

“Nothing, Julian.” I snap. “I’m trying to run a fucking business, not a kindergarten daycare for executives who need emotional support to sign a contract.”

He lifts a brow. “Uh-huh. And this definitely has nothing to do with a certain brunette who sprinted out of a gala without explanation?”

I shoot him a look that could shred steel.

Before he can poke again, there’s a soft knock.

Sloane reappears, portfolio clutched like a riot shield. “Mr. Foster wants to speak with you, and he says it’s urgent.”

“Put him through,” I say, already reaching for my desk phone.

She hesitates. “Actually... he’s here.”

She steps aside, and Kieran Foster—head of Communications, unflappable, annoyingly cheery Kieran—stands in the doorway looking like he’s about to be marched to his execution.

A cold tension coils under my ribs.

“Kieran?” I say. “What’s going on?”