“Can I at least have a go at him?”
“After I’m done with him.”
“Got it. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thanks, Masters.”
“Don’t thank me yet,”he laughs.“You’ll owe me a favor, and my wife wants a house built by you. And what Flora wants, she gets. She’s a menace though, I warn you.”
I chuckle. “I’ll build her a palace from seashells with my own hands if it gets you to help me on this.”
I park in front of the main building of the golf club. No one but the staff is here so far. I called Tori earlier and asked her to book me a flight to Bora Bora, and I have eight hours before I have to depart. So this asshole Larry had better hurry up.
Two hours pass while I wait, and it’s filled with information Dante sends my way. Videos of the asshole’s speech, accepting a reward he didn’t deserve with promises he’ll never keep. I’m so engrossed in my research that I miss the moment when people start arriving, so I head inside.
The clubhouse smells like lemon oil, cigar smoke, and entitlement. Something Mom fought hard for us to avoid.
The morning staff glance up, recognize the suit and the face, and decide their paycheck isn’t worth slowing me down. I stride past framed photos of men congratulating themselves for breathing near grass and head for the locker rooms.
“Sir, do you have an invitation?” a kid in a polo starts.
“I do,” I say without stopping, and he decides silence is the best career move. Smart people work here.
I find my target by the sound of his voice first—loud and relaxed, the lazy cadence of a man who’s never met a boundary he didn’t bulldoze. Larry Commerford stands in front of a mirror, adjusting his tie and smiling at his reflection. Scarce chin, too-white teeth, the performative tan that stops at the hairline. Late forties going on immobile forehead.
“King,” he booms at my reflection in the mirror when our eyes meet, as if we’re old pals. He’s the kind of man who mistakes every approach for admiration. “I’ve heard about you. Your brother, of course. Your philanthropic pivot.Commendable. I think we have something to discuss if you don’t mind.”
“Larry,” I say, ignoring his smooth speech. “Do you remember Beatrice Wrong?”
He smiles the way men smile at appetizers. “Beatrice. Dear Bea. Of course I do. Her parents were eager to marry her off. Pretty little thing. Yes. Our families had the right idea about that pairing. A shame she was so—” He flicks his fingers in the air, searching for a word. “—skittish. But I’ve heard she’s grown now, so that might change.” He licks his lips, and I feel anger boiling under my skin.
My knuckles go cold because I squeeze my fists too tight.
“You cornered a seventeen-year-old in the dark hallway of a fundraiser and put your hands on her,” I start, “and you laughed when she said no.”
His gaze barely flickers. He adjusts his cuff, not even pretending to look remorseful. “Young girls misread attention. She was flattered. Skittish, like I said. It happens.”
The locker room goes fuzzy at the edges. “You touched a child.”
He smiles at himself in the mirror instead of me. “I guided a debutante through a corridor, King. Let’s not get hysterical.”
I don’t remember crossing the space, just the feel of his collar in my fist and the satisfying crack of his back hitting the lockers. The metal sings. A couple of men at the sinks freeze. Larry makes a noise like a cough that’s really his breath failing.
“Guided?” My voice comes out low enough that his pupils widen. “You pinned a seventeen-year-old to a wall in the dark and put your hand up her dress. You don’t get to rename that.”
He tries to peel my fingers off, shocked to find his meaty forearms aren’t getting him anywhere. “You need to let go.”
“I need you to listen.” I lean in, letting him feel the threat closer. “She’s mine to protect now. Not my property—myresponsibility. There’s a difference, but it won’t matter to you. Here’s what will: if you so much as say her name in a room again, I will dismantle your life in ways you don’t even have language for. This isn’t a threat. It’s a forecast of the shitty weather coming for you.”
He snorts, but his pulse stutters in his throat.
“Security,” he says, trying for bored, but it comes out thin. “You’re having a moment. Step back.”
I release him enough for air but not enough for the illusion of freedom.
“Here’s today’s menu. Option one: you resign from whatever little exploratory committee you’re sampling, issue a public statement about spending more time with your family, donate a very ugly amount to the Newside project, and vanish yourself from any function my girl might ever be within a borough of. Option two: I open the folder I already have compiled on my phone, and Masters hands it to three reporters who hate you more than Hitler.”
He attempts a laugh. It’s squeaky. “You don’t scare me.”
