“Time’s up,” I say, my voice level. I slip my phone back into my pocket and stand, pushing my chair back as there’s a knock on the door. A security guard opens it, raising his brow at me. He’s danced this dance before. Two other guards linger behind him.
“Seek injunctions, protest, try to blow the place up. You won’t win against me, Alfred.” I address Sr. because Jr. is a fucking idiot. “I thought you were smarter than this. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting.”
Alfred Sr. rises to his feet to join his son. “I almost feel sorry for you, Quinn. You don’t understand what it means to be part of a community, do you?”
“After you.” I gesture with my palms for them to get out as the two security guards come between the Mareks and me.
I turn to Sarah and the paralegal kiddo sweating buckets, now on their feet and anxious to leave. “Sarah, inform the team that we’ll need to modify our construction phases since the Mareks’ refuse to negotiate.”
We’ll build around them.
“I don’t know why we expected anything different from a psychopath. Everyone in Queens knows what you did,” Jr. sneers from behind me.
Everyone freezes.
The words trickle under my skin like parasites.
I slowly pivot to face him.
His eyes spark with smug satisfaction, pleased that his parting jab provoked a reaction.
I raise my hand to stop the security guards from dragging him down the hall, not taking my eyes off Junior. “And what exactly is that?”
He stiffens, his bravado faltering even though he’s got the security guards between us.
“Leave it, Son,” his father warns quietly beside him.
Junior narrows his eyes and stands tall. “You’re the worst kind of scum. She was the mother of your kid.”
“Get. The. Fuck. Out,” I growl through clenched teeth, struggling to control the anger surging through me. I narrow my eyes, my knuckles white as I grip the edge of the table behind me.
At my signal, my security team escorts the Mareks away swiftly.
I watch as they disappear from view down the hallway.
I get no pleasure from knocking down his family or his restaurant. It’s just business. But he made this personal. Now I want to tear down his damn restaurant and make sure my casino is the only view he ever sees from his house.
Mandy, my PA, approaches from where she’s been watching. Perhaps I should be more concerned about how unfazed she is by the scene.
“Walk and talk, Mandy,” I say in as calm a voice as I can manage. I take the coffee from her and head toward my office.
She follows me in a slight jog as people scurry out of our way. “Your four o’clock is in boardroom two,” she begins, referencing her notepad. “Then we have a car waiting for you for your five-ten meeting across town. Oh, and the New York Times called. They want a quote from you about the Dante Carlo hotel group going into liquidation.”
I stop short in the hallway. “Why the fuck do they want a quote from me?”
Mandy looks at me strangely before responding. “Because you’re Killian Quinn.”
“Fine, get PR to put together a quote and run it past me. Cancel the five-ten. I want to be home when Teagan returns from school, since there’s no nanny this week.”
“But, Mr. Quinn-”
“No buts.”
She bites her lip and nods as we walk until we reach my office. “I booked dinner for your daughter’s birthday.” She glances at the pad again. “Oh, and I sent Mrs. Dalton’s daughter some flowers.”
“Good. Has she been moved to the new clinic yet?”
She nods, smiling. “She’s loving the VIP treatment. But Mrs. Dalton wants to stay with her in Boston for at least two months.”
I take a deep breath, then push open the door to my office.
I get it. I have a daughter, and I would do anything for her too. I signed off on the checks to move Mrs. Dalton’s daughter to the best clinic in the country, not paying any attention to the cost. It’s irrelevant.
But Mrs. Dalton’s absence fills me with trepidation more than anything has in years, and I’ve been shot at twice. She’s been with Teagan and me as my live-in nanny and domestic assistant for years. A sensible Irish woman in her early fifties whose children have all grown up. She has the integrity and discretion that I need for someone living with my daughter.
Since Teagan’s nearly thirteen and at school, she only needs someone in the evenings until I get home. I don’t care how grown-up Teagan thinks she is. My security team isn’t good company for teenage girls. This is my dire attempt to have a more motherly figure in her life.
But finding a suitable replacement has been a fucking nightmare.
My younger brother, Connor, swaggers toward me. “How come you’re the only one who comes back from your meetings and doesn’t look like they want to jump out of the window?”
“Thanks, Mandy.” I nod for her to leave, then turn to Connor. “Glad you were entertained.”
He props himself against the wall. “So the old man won’t sign?”
“They’ll sign eventually. Just a pity they’re wasting everyone’s time.”
“I don’t know why you bothered to talk with him.”
“What can I say? I’m a nice guy,” I reply dryly, taking a mouthful of coffee. I don’t tell him that the prick of a son taunted me over Harlow’s death. “Sometimes they feel better when they’ve been allowed to say their piece. I’d prefer they sign quietly.”
“If you want them to sign quietly, put someone charming in front of them.”
I stare at him, deadpan.
He chuckles as Marcus, our chief of staff, joins us, reeking of cigarette smoke. I might force him to quit.
Marcus’ brows shoot up as he takes in Connor. “You shaved your head.”
Connor chuckles. “Killian didn’t even notice.”
“Of course, I fucking noticed,” I snap. “I’ve got better things to do than massage Connor’s ego by telling him how much I love his new military hairstyle.”
Connor lets out a laugh and pushes himself off the wall. “Christ, he’s even grouchier than usual today. Good luck.” He slaps Marcus on the back before walking away.