Page 130 of Savage Promises
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Shane
Aweek goes by and I’m in my office trailer with Tom Farrell who is explaining a new and costly delay to the UN building project. I lean back in my chair, teasing him. Testing him. Scaring the crap out of him.
Made worse by my phone ringing over and over and me not even looking at it. Just giving Farrell a death stare.
“It’s nearly nine p.m., Mr. Quinlan. I’d like to go home to my wife,” he says bravely and stands up.
“Sit down,” I bark. “I’m going to needsomethingfrom you to overlook this delay.”
Slamming back into his seat, he says, “I’m leveraged to the bone, Mr. Q. You can drag me off to one of your punishment sites, but that won’t—”
“I don’t want money.” I glance around. “Do I look like I need money?”
“Then whatdoyou want?” He nervously checks his watch.
I bring up a photo on the monitor behind me that doubles as a television. “This.I want this.”
Farrell jerks forward and pounds an angry fist on my desk. “You expect me to give you an entire luxury apartment building?” His voice cracks in the most delicious sound of fear.
I still got it. I’m a mess inside, but on the outside, I’m as savage as ever.
“Not thewholebuilding. But I will take the three-thousand-square-foot penthouse loft.”
It’s a few blocks from here with wraparound views of Lower Manhattan and heavy security because it’s intended for foreign dignitaries.
Farrell looks even more horrified. “That loft is wortha few million dollars.”
I tap my fingers on my knee. “According to the emails with your mistress, who you planned to stash away there, you were promised buyers willing to pay well over market value for the other units, affording you to keep that top floor for yourself. And her. Nice little money laundering scheme you have there. Did you think I wouldn’t want a cut?”
Sweat beads on Farrell’s already shiny forehead from too much Botox. After an exhale, he relents, “Okay. It’s yours.”
It’s the perfect place for Lennox and me to start again. Empty words weren’t enough when I begged her to come home last week. The loft andwhyI want a loft will prove how serious I am.
I’m about to dangle Farrell a little longer when Connor pushes through the steel trailer door.
“You fucking dosser! There you are. I’ve been calling you.”
I spring forward at my desk. “What’s the matter?”
“Turn on the television.” He grabs the remote and snarls at Farrell, “Take a hike.”
Tom quickly gets to his feet, tugging his tie. “We’ll talk, Q.”
I spin around and the luxury building on the monitor changes to an alarming breaking-news segment with a ticker scrolling across the bottom:
Shooting at Luxe nightclub in Manhattan.
I bolt to my feet.
A female reporter in a raincoat outside the familiar façade, speaks urgently into her microphone.
‘Multiple masked gunmen stormed the hot new nightclubcalled Luxe an hour ago, opening fire. At least ten people are confirmed dead, and several others are being held hostage inside. The assailants remain unidentified, and authorities have yet to make contact with them. Witnesses describe a coordinated, military-style attack...’
Luxe.
My blood stills.
