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But what Santiago wants he gets, including my presence at his daughter’s eighteenth birthday party. I believe his words to me yesterday were, “show up or fuck off”, and when he tells someone the latter, they usually end up in a body bag. After years of hard grafting, I’ve earned New York, and I’m not about to jeopardize it with a bullet in the head for disrespect before the aperitifs start circling.
“Ah, my favorite Grayson! I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”
Senator Rick Sanders sweeps out of the nearest doorway, clutching a bottle of Macallan and reeking of well-dressed dissidence. He’s the owner of this mansion and our main man in Washington, but he used to be on the ground like us.
Two decades ago, he drew a line of white coke around New York, and no one dared cross it. Then, he met a nice girl, and chose to corrupt The Senate instead. He’s been prowling those fêted hallways ever since, cutting backroom deals for the cartel on the sly, and making ‘exploitation’ the new in-word for the upstanding and good.
His eldest son, Sam, is just as charming, loyal, and manipulative, albeit a nineteen-year-old version, which makes him twice as lethal.
“Didn’t have much of a choice,” I admit, taking his outstretched hand. “I wasn’t in the mood for my own funeral.”
He smirks, looking as predatory as ever. “You don’t share the same blood as your old man, but you certainly have the Grayson glare.”
“Have you killed him yet?” I snatch at a glass from a passing tray, not caring what it is, just so long as it gets me drunk. “Or does that happen after dessert?”
There’s no love lost between Sanders and my adoptive father, but they tolerate each other on occasions such as these.
“Would you care if I did?” He lifts his Macallan and takes a swig, waiting patiently for my reaction. He knows we rarely speak these days. What was once a strained silence is practically non-existent now outside of normal business hours.
“I’mreluctantto answer that,” I murmur, watching his eyebrows shoot up at my odd choice of vocabulary.
“Suit yourself.”
There’s a new arrival and he switches effortlessly to hosting duties before ushering me toward a huge living room that leads out onto a patio.
“Go in. Get shitfaced. Knight’s already here. The belle of the ball should be down any minute.”
“How is she?” I say, picking dried blood off my nails.
“Better than she was.” His gaze lingers, and I resist the urge to run my finger underneath the rim of my shirt collar. “They switched her meds, so she hasn’t had a flare up in a while. Santiago won’t let her out of his sight. He’s never had a problem he can’t fix without violence, and he’s part furious, part frustrated about the whole fucking thing.”
“Does she walk with a stick, or is she in a wheelchair?”
I try not to think about the happy little girl who once skipped across a patio toward me with shining eyes and a megawatt smile.
“Christ, you reallyhaven’tseen her in a while, have you?” He watches as I lighten another passing tray.
“Tell me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“If I wanted a riddle, I would’ve stayed at home with a fuckingcrossword,” I snip back. “Just answer the damn question.”
“Why the hell, should I? I’m a politician!” He throws his head back and laughs. “I see you have the same endless charm as your father, too. Need I remind you that Ella is a Santiago?” He offers me his bottle of Macallan as a chaser for my champagne, deciding my need is greater than his. “That DNA doesn't submit to anythingwithout a battle.” Through the open doorway, I see my old mentor from Monaco holding up anArturo Fuentecigar with my name written all over it. “Just a little something to keep in mind.”
“You say it like I give a shit.”
Handing the bottle back to him, I go to leave when I’m distracted by an original Salvador Dali on the wall. Pausing to admire it, I catch a flash of gold out of the corner of my eye. It’s coming from the marble staircase beyond. There’s a woman descending from the first floor, her left hand lightly trailing the polished banister.Something about the way she moves holds my attention, though I can’t see her face. Her eyes are fixed to the floor, and the careful way she’s positioning each step tells me that wearing heels is still a novelty for her.
My gaze lingers. I’m intrigued to see if the rest of her matches up to that promise of innocence. Her dress is expensive. Designer. Maybe even Givenchy Couture. The way the silk flows makes the material look like liquid gold, skimming off her small breasts and hipbones, and clinging tantalizingly to the soft mound between her legs.
Every step is a delicate lesson in caution.
Every hip swing is a siren to my cock.
I’m hard already, which tells me that it’s been far too long since I last fucked a woman.
Get a grip, Edier.
