Page 29 of The Silver Fox Brother

"You want to see it?"

"Yes."

We take the construction elevator up another fifteen floors. When we step out onto the thirtieth floor, the view opens up—unobstructed views across the river, the Statue of Liberty visible in the distance, the full expanse of lower Manhattan spreading out to the east.

This is what people are paying eight million dollars for.

I walk to where the penthouse master suite will be. Fifty-five hundred square feet of raw space, concrete floors, steel beams overhead, window openings that will eventually be floor-to-ceiling glass.

"This space needs to feel warm," I say, looking out at the view.

"Luxury, yes. But livable. Not another sterile showroom that looks good in photos and feels cold in person."

"That's a designer problem," Tom says.

"Everything's a designer problem until I find the right one."

Tom grins slightly. "Picky?"

"Selective."

My phone buzzes. I pull it out—text from Fletcher.

Fletcher: Still on for noon? Courts are reserved. Prepare to get destroyed.

I almost smile.

Knox: I don't get destroyed. See you at noon.

Fletcher: We'll see about that.

I pocket the phone and turn back to Tom.

"What else?"

We spend the next twenty minutes walking the lower floors, discussing window installation timelines, reviewing lobby finishes, checking progress against the schedule I have memorized down to the day. The amenity floors—twenty-eight and twenty-nine—are framed out, space allocated for the gym, pool, spa, sauna. Everything is moving. Nothing is standing still.

By 10:52, I've seen what I need to see.

"Good work," I tell Tom.

"Keep the pressure on the steel supplier. I want that delivery commitment locked down by Wednesday."

"You got it, boss."

I leave the site, hardhat in hand, and head for the street where Victor is waiting with the Bentley at the curb. The sun is brutal, heat shimmering off the pavement, but the car's interior is cool and dark when I slide into the back seat.

"Back to the office?" Victor asks.

I check my watch. 11:03 AM. Racquetball at noon. I need time to change at the club.

"The Printing House. I've got a game."

Victor nods and pulls into traffic, navigating through Tribeca's narrow streets toward the West Side Highway.

I lean back against the leather seat and close my eyes for thirty seconds. The designer situation is a problem, but it's solvable. Marcus will have that list by this afternoon. I'll review it, make a decision, and move forward.

The Printing House is exactly what it sounds like—a converted printing factory in the West Village that's been transformed into one of Manhattan's premier athletic clubs. All exposed brick and industrial beams, floor-to-ceiling windows, and amenities that cater to people who can afford the five-figure annual membership.