Page 2 of Boardroom Ties
I’d call it a “filthy rat’s nest,” but I think that’s doing a disservice to filth, rats, and nests. The floor is sticky and the lighting is practically nonexistent. Mayor Bloomberg banned smoking in restaurants more than two decades ago, but none of the patrons in here seem to have much respect for New York City bylaws, because damn near every one of them has either a cigarette or a vape smoldering between their thick, tattooed fingers. One hard-working guy is actually smoking both at the same time. Thudding heavy metal music weaves through the clack of pool balls echoing from the back and the low mutter of conversations that probably aren’t of the legal variety.
I sit down at the bar and put my purse on the stool next to me. “Vodka martini,” I announce. “Extremely fucking dirty.”
The bartender glances at me, then frowns. He’s got a thick neck and a shaved head. I don’t think the rag he’s using to polish the counter top has ever even heard of the word “soap.” It looks like a taxidermic mouse.
“You lost, hon?” he drawls. “This isn’t really a place for…”
He trails off as he looks me up and down. I know what he’s seeing and what he thinks of it. Hell, I probably think the same thing about myself. Cashmere coat, Brazilian blowout, the Cartier watch, which I’m just now realizing I should’ve left in the car… It all adds up to,This rich bitch. She must have a goddamn death wish.
He’s right. I do.
ButI’mnot the one it’s for.
“For girls like you,” he finishes.
I grit my teeth. I knew this moment would come. It was never going to be easy, this sordid little mission of mine. I’ve been alive as a woman in this world for almost thirty years now, and I know as well as anyone that men have only ever existed to make our livesmoredifficult, not less.
Don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I’m on some feminist kick here. I don’t give a damn about smashing glass ceilings. I’d just like to not be condescended to by a thick-necked gargoyle who doesn’t know one tiny little bit about all the horrors I’ve gone through to get here.
The blood I’ve seen.
The bodies I’ve buried.
The other thing I know about men is that they can smell weakness—and they will never, ever respect it. Raymond has been that way from the start. Sure, he pretended he was sweet at first, back in our courting days. He held car doors and brought me flowers. One memorable evening, he even pulled out my chair.
But the chivalrous act didn’t last long. Soon, the noose around my neck tightened, and tightened, and tightened some more. Raymond Snyder is not a gentleman; he’s a fucking demon. If I didn’t enter this marriage with the sole intent of exacting revenge for what he did to Giana, I’d have been stunned by the abrupt and horrible turnaround.
I know what he is, though. I’ve known from the fucking day I met him.
“That’s sweet,” I say to the bartender with a simpering smile. Then I turn it into a scowl. “Now, piss off and pour my damn drink.”
The bartender’s unibrow rises up half an inch on his forehead. I don’t think people who look like me talk to people who look like him very often. For a second, I wonder if I’m about to get thrown out of this place before I even get anywhere close to achieving what I came for.
Then, to my pleasant surprise, he shrugs and turns around to start fixing my drink.
While I wait, I peer around. There seems to be an unspoken rule in here not to look any strangers in the eye. I can feel gazes on me, burning hot in the back of my neck, but whenever I sweep my attention around, no one is looking back. They sit in clusters, brimming with tattoos and B.O., murmuring back and forth, and occasionally breaking out into brays of rough laughter that sound like backfiring cement mixers.
Then I notice the man in the corner booth.
He’s alone, oddly enough. Everyone else in here seems to travel in packs, but this guy is by himself, half-hidden behind a curtain of smoke.
He doesn’t fit in here. Not like the other guys do. His clothes are too good. Black shirt, black suit jacket, with not a wrinkle on either one.
His face doesn’t fit, either. He has a clean jaw with black stubble, well-groomed. That’s night and day from the other hairy half-werewolves drinking here tonight. His hair is as dark as his clothes. His eyes are blue enough to glow, even through the crowded, smoky room.
From what I can make out through the haze, he’s— Well, I have to say he’s beautiful. That’s just a fact. It’s a face that would stand out anywhere, but especially here, in this pit.
But something about him makes my stomach go tight.
I don’t know why. He’s not doing anything threatening. He’s just sitting there, rotating his whiskey glass slowly on the table with one hand. He still hasn’t looked up once. He seems bored, if anything.
Still. There’ssomethingthere. I can’t put my finger on it.
The bartender plunks my martini down in front of me. I swallow the sudden tang of fear in my mouth and rip my eyes away from the man in the corner.
He is bad news. Best to steer clear.
Maybe we’ll start tonight’s hunt a little bit closer. Three seats down, there’s a guy built like a refrigerator. He’s got neck tattoos galore and a nose so mushed and crooked from repeated breaks that it looks more like a sock full of marbles that’s been stapled to the center of his face.
