Blacklist

by Geneva Lee

  Harding follows them with his briefcase in hand. There’s a bounce to his step. He walks like a man who’s just shed fifty pounds of dead weight. In a way, he has. He delivered Angus MacLaine’s final blows. He’s as free from the man as any of us can ever hope to be.

  The room empties save for Malcolm and me—Angus MacLaine’s lesser heirs. The ones who had worked for our father’s love and still failed to win it. Maybe that’s the problem. Our true inheritance isn’t property or stocks. It’s our father’s final, unintended lesson. Love isn’t a game. In love, you can’t win or lose. Not when it’s real.

  “Did you know about this?” Malcolm asks again. He sounds tired as though he’s ready to collapse at the end of a long race.

  “No, I didn’t.” I’m not going to try to prove it. He can believe me if he wants.

  “Even in his grave, the man can find a way to fuck us.”

  “Yep.” I snort, realizing we’ve found common ground at last.

  “I should check on Ginny. She’s probably stress shopping online.” Malcolm starts toward the door.

  But there’s something still nagging me. “Malcolm,” I call and he stops at the door. “Harding said you spoke with one of the investors at the funeral. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know him,” he says. “He came to me with a proposition, one I need to consider.” He pauses, fading away for a moment as if lost in his thoughts before he zeroes in on me. “There might be other interested parties though.”

  “You’ll tell me when you know more?”

  “Of course.” But he wears a politician’s smile—the one passed down from father to son. He’s lying. The question is: why?

  9

  Sterling

  Twelve and South rises like a shard of glass in the heart of Nashville. Outside, the morning sun dances off the luxury high-rise over two blocks of restaurants and shops. Farther east, a string of famous bars boasts the best music in town. Inside, the views from the twenty-fifth floor are even more impressive. Unbroken windows wrap the entire exterior of the building’s penthouse apartment. It feels like walking on a cloud—if a cloud had marble floors and a fireplace.

  “There’s not much privacy,” the real estate agent titters. Even in her Burberry scarf with Gucci hanging off her arm, she’s out of her element in the multimillion-dollar property. That isn’t stopping her from trying to appear knowledgeable. She walks through with a critical eye, clucking over all of the apartment’s best features.

  “It’s all the privacy I need, Ms. Summers,” I assure her. It’s a good thing she’s the trophy wife of a Tennessee Titan, because she’s hopeless at closing a done deal on one of Nashville’s most expensive bachelor pads.

  “Of course, you are on the top floor, so I suppose people can’t see everything.” Her heavily lined and lashed gaze zeroes in on me. She’s too prudish to say what she’s really thinking. “I suppose you could get some curtains.”

  If it wasn’t at the top, passersby could see every inch of this place. Even the master bath boasts a wall of windows so you can see the city from the shower. The only privacy it affords is the walk-in and two toilet closets. In truth, someone would have to be standing in a building opposite us—there are none this tall in the Gulch area—or looking through binoculars. Given what I do, it might be prudent to have a more private space. But that’s the trick with money and crime, it’s not about hiding, it’s about being seen. Show the world what you want them to believe. For me that boils down to showing three things:

  I’m rich.

  I’m ruthless.

  I’m at the top of the food chain.

  The penthouse screams all those things.

  I turn a crooked smile on her, my mind already half on finding the right people to handle the rest of the details. Shoving my hands in my Armani slacks, I can’t resist playing with her despite already reaching my decision, “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Of course, I only mean at night or when you’re in the s-s-shower,” she stammers.

  “I don’t mind if someone sees me stepping out of the shower.” I could stop there, but why not complete the dots? “I have nothing to be self-conscious about.”

  Her eyes skip down my form, a deep red blush painting her cheeks as she stares. They stop on my crotch, her hands seeking the marble counter behind her for balance.

  Yep, you’re doing the math right, sweetheart. I know what she sees because I spend two hours in the gym every morning—a practice drilled into me from basic training and one that’s netted more than a few bodies in my bed. I could have Ms. Summers on the kitchen counter if I wanted. We both know it.

  Her lips part, her tongue darting past her brilliant white teeth to lick her coral-painted lower lip. I suppose most men might go for brunette with curls as voluminous as her curves. Maybe I would have in the past. I’ve been around plenty of women like her over the last few years: bored housewives and overlooked trophy wives whose full-time profession is being a showpiece for their wealthy husbands. Husbands who don’t bother to appreciate the effort, leaving them to look elsewhere for fulfillment. They see two things when they look at me: youth and money. If one doesn’t satisfy, the other will. But I don’t want more, I want less. I want bare skin with freckles showing, hair that falls wild down her back, lips naked and waiting to be kissed.

  I shift on my feet, my slacks suddenly feeling a bit too strained. A small gasp escapes Ms. Summers, reminding me that I’m here now with a woman who is nothing like that, living in a world where that girl no longer exists. I stifle a groan and stride toward the kitchen.

  She whirls around, suddenly and intensely focusing on the appliances. “It’s a chef’s kitchen. That’s a gas oven. Two pantries to your left, one for wine. Then again, you probably don’t cook.”

  I don’t bother to correct her on this. In actuality, the gourmet Wolf range and Subzero fridge are two of the things that drew me to this listing. She doesn’t need to know this. No one does. I don’t care if someone sees my naked body or women coming and going, but the fact that I prefer to cook my own meals? That I take my coffee black and fresh-pressed? Those aren’t part of the face I present to the world. I have my reasons.

  “There’s access to the building’s fitness center and sauna on the third floor.” I’ve left her to fill in the silence and she’s doing her best to rattle off as many features as her poor, overwhelmed brain can recall.

  An incoming call interrupts her sales pitch, and I hold up a finger to silence her. Checking the screen, I can’t help but grin. “I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I’ve been expecting this call. Give me a minute.”

  “Of course,” she simpers. “Let me”—

  But I’m already walking into the empty bedroom. “Mr. MacLaine, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” he says smoothly. Such a politician. “I hope it’s a good time.”

  “I’m just wrapping up a real estate deal.”

  There’s a pause on the other end. “I’d love to hear about that.”

  I bet he would. No doubt he’s wondering how close to home I’m landing. “We should get together.”

  “Do you have dinner plans?” He thinks I’m extending an olive branch. He’s too greedy to pause and investigate. He’ll have it in his grubby little hands before he realizes that it’s poison ivy. That’s exactly what I want.

  “Tonight?”

  “Unless it’s too last minute,” Malcolm says. I imagine him squirming in his Aeron chair, loosening his tie, checking his own calendar.

  I enjoy it, but playing coy is a woman’s game. “I was going to grab Hennie’s and head back to the Eaton.”

  “I think we can do better than that,” he says.

  I seriously doubt he can beat the best hot chicken in Nashville—one of the few reasons I’m actually enjoy being back in the city. But rich people love their pageantry and place settings. Real people prefer good eats. “When?”

  “Say seven o’clock at the house?”
<
br />   “I’ll be there.” I cut off the call and look down to the city below the window. Nashville stretches before me like an old friend. From here I can see all of Broadway from the Art Deco lines of the Frist down to the bars. There’s hardly any foot traffic at this hour as the street rests up for another raucous night. When the moon takes over for the day shift, the world below will be a neon blur of life and music. There’s a lot to love about the city. It’s not New York, but in some ways it’s more of a home than I ever knew there. But I’m not looking for a home, I’m looking for a kingdom. I’m going to be the law of this land. This is the perfect castle in the sky.

  Ms. Summers drops her lipstick back into her purse when I return to the kitchen. “Would you like me to show you the joint amenities”—

  “I’ll take it,” I cut her off. I’d known I would before I scheduled the showing, but I’m not one to pay commission without making an agent work for it.

  “I will start all the paperwork and I assume you have financing in place?” She chews on her lipstick as if she’s been burned at this point before.

  I’m about to make her year. “It’s a cash purchase,” I correct her, checking my watch to discover this took longer than expected. “Text me when you’re ready for me to sign. I need to get to an appointment.”

  She blinks rapidly like she’s about to pass out. Her fingers search for the printed listing she left on the counter when we arrived. When they find it, she holds it out to me. “It’s three million dollars.”

  “I can read,” I say coolly. It’s not the first time a person has assumed my bank balance based on my age.

  “Who are you?” she asks before quickly recovering her wits, “I mean, what do you do? I’ll need to know where the funds come from for the paperwork.”

  She needs to know because she’s dying to find out how a 24 year-old has three million to drop on a penthouse.

  “I manage bank portfolios, personal assets,” I tell her. She doesn’t need to know more than that.

  And her first question? Who I am? That’s something I don’t show anyone.

  The Barrelhouse is empty at ten o’clock in the morning. The lights are off, chairs still on the tables, and its famous stage empty. The glow from a large neon music note casts a blue hue over the dark space. Its hum fills the quiet with unmistakable tension as though any moment the silence will shatter and spill over with life. At night, it transforms into a blues club that’s equal parts rowdy and respectable. Everyone—and I mean everyone—has played the Barrelhouse. It’s the kind of place where Mick Jagger might stop in and jump on stage for a set unannounced. The place is a landmark in the music industry, and the first club where I ever heard the blues played when I arrived in Tennessee five years ago. Then I was a kid being dragged to hear a musician I’d never heard of in a place I didn’t know existed. Today, its new owner is an old friend.

  A man bustles from the back kitchen, a bottle of whiskey in each hand. Even here in his own club, Jack Archer moves like the military—efficient but aware of the entire room, his broad shoulders squared and ready for anything. That’s probably why he instantly spots me, a wide grin splitting his brown face, and holds up a bottle. “Took you long enough. The hard stuff?”

  He knows better than to ask. I shake my head anyway. “It’s not even noon.”

  “Luca will be disappointed,” he says. “Coffee it is.”

  “Luca should have gotten here first.”

  “I did,” Luca says sourly behind me.

  Turning, I find Luca DeAngelo sitting in the shadows. Jack might move like a lion surveying his kingdom for potential threats, but Luca sticks to the dark corners. He waits in the shadows for the right moment to strike. Individually, we all have our strengths. Now that we’re all here together, we can relax. The tension fades as we drop our collective guard. Jack retrieves ceramic mugs from below the bar and Luca stretches his arms overhead before lounging back lazily in his chair.

  “I told you he wouldn’t drink with us,” Luca says. “This isn’t Cairo, after all.”

  “Cairo was a different story.” I grab a chair and spin it around. Straddling it, I drop into the chair and wish he hadn’t brought that particular mistake up.

  “Most people don’t start their day with a shot of West,” Jack defends me as he pulls a shot from the La Marzocco. The espresso machine is a concession to the number of people who need coffee when a long night of drinking turns into a mad rush home as dawn breaks. “Still take it black?”

  I nod.

  “You know how I take it,” Luca says.

  Jack frowns but pours a dash of Irish whiskey into Luca’s mug. He joins us at the table in the corner.

  “It’s like old times,” I say, taking my cup from him. “The three of us sitting in the dark drinking coffee.”

  “The coffee is better here,” Jack says.

  “The weather, too,” Luca adds.

  For all we bash the Middle East, I suspect none of us mean it. We might not miss the heat. But the people? The experiences? Our time there affects us still. I see it every time I get together with my best friends. We can’t stay still. We can’t fall into normal life. We’re always waiting for ground fire or marching orders. At least, Luca and I are. Jack is another story.

  “How’s the label?” I blow on my coffee, waiting for it to be cool enough.

  Jack, who has always had an inhuman tolerance for heat, takes a sip of his without waiting. “Fine.”

  “That means it’s shit,” Luca guesses.

  “The record label is fine,” Jack repeats.

  Luca continues to ignore his coffee, concentrating on Jack instead. “If you need help—”

  “I have everything covered,” Jack assures us quickly.

  We all know where the foundation of our current success was laid, but Jack is determined to change direction, even if it means losing every dime on dreams of building his own record label. He’s been cautious, starting small with buying the Barrelhouse from its elderly owner last year and turning the hole in the wall landmark into a place to see and be seen. From there, he spun off a small, upstart label: Archer Records. “If I take money, then what happens when someone’s niece needs a record deal? Suddenly I’m stuck producing the next pop princess?” He shakes his head as if the thought is too painful to bear. “There are a lot of talented artists out there who deserve to have records.”

  “It’s like you’re fucking allergic to money,” Luca says with disgust. Even with the addition of Irish whiskey, he seems uninterested in his coffee.

  “I have everything I need.” Jack shrugs. He’s never chosen to be flashy with our self-made fortune, and I’ve never asked him what he did with it. There’s no way the Barrelhouse or Archer Records cost him all of his take from the old days. He’s just never seemed to need more than to follow his passion. Still, he knows better than to debate this with Luca.

  Trusting Luca DeAngelo is like sticking your hand into a black box. He might reward you. He might bite. After all these years, it’s still impossible to know which to expect, even as his friend.

  When Jack doesn’t take his bait, he turns on me, “So, are you still going through with this?”

  He should know better the question my resolve when it comes to the MacLaine family. “I just bought a place on Twelfth Avenue.”

  “The Twelve South Towers?” Jack whistles in appreciation. Unlike Luca, Nashville is in his blood. “Those are pricey.”

  “Come back to work with me,” Luca suggests to him, “and you can move out of that shithole you call home upstairs.”

  “I like that shithole,” Jack says.

  Luca isn’t buying it. “Bullshit.”

  This is how it always is with them. Physically, they’re about as far apart as possible. Jack’s golden brown skin and black eyes are the extreme opposite of Luca’s hazel eyes and olive-hued skin. But from the way they go at it, they sound like brothers. I’m the one stuck mediating their constant bickering. We may have come from different moth
ers, but for all intents and purposes, that’s what we are: brothers.

  “What’s the plan, Sterling?” Jack asks, getting back to the point of this meeting. He’d been happy when I called him until I’d told him whose funeral I was coming to town for. It didn’t matter if he had known it was coming. Now that it’s here, he seems to be rethinking the situation.

  “Getting cold feet?” I ask.

  “No,” he says and he sounds sincere. He studies me for a second. “Are you?”

  Neither of them questioned me when I asked them to buy equal interests in the suddenly available personal holdings of Angus MacLaine a few months ago. The old man had leveraged his family’s personal stock against his failing media empire in a desperate attempt to buy his freedom from the DeAngelo family, among others. He’d bought short-term relief, but lost the gamble he’d be around long enough to buy back what he had sold. I’d been investing quietly in MacLaine media for years under a shell company, careful not to draw too much attention to myself. Now, between the three of us, we’re in possession of nearly half of MacLaine Media.

  “I still don’t understand why you need us?” Luca says. His particular brilliance isn’t in the financial but rather the mental aspects of the game. Basically, he knows how to fuck with people until they crack.

  “Isn’t it more fun this way?” I ask. I could explain, but that’s what he really cares about.

  “Malcolm MacLaine has no idea who holds the interest in his company,” Jack explains. “When he starts to look, he needs to think there are three major players, not just Sterling.”

  “What’s fun about that for you?” Luca asks me. “It’s not usually how you operate. You prefer to go for the jugular.”

  “I guess I’m taking a page from your book,” I tell him. Luca prefers to play with his prey. It’s more about slowly torturing someone until they self-destruct than blowing them up.