1. The Beast Arrives

CHAPTER 1

The Beast Arrives

Zain

I wasn’t entirely sure which one it was—the cold, blue glare from his icy eyes or the expression on his long, narrow, classically attractive face that made me think of a wolf. And he was a smug, self-satisfied wolf if he was anything.

The wolf-man entered the shop and sounded the bell above the door on Wednesday morning. He seemed to be dragging in the entire doom and gloom of the cloudy November day. Chilly wind poured into the shop as the door slammed shut.

“Good morning,” I said in a thin, surprised voice. He did not look like the kind of man who shopped for Middle Eastern spices or fresh produce. He wore a short, dark gray coat, a fine-knitted scarf that looked gray and green, a crisp white shirt, black suit pants, and a pair of black dress shoes. I could hardly picture him walking out of here with a bag of cilantro and a stack of incense.

His hair was light brown, veering close to blond, cut to medium length on top and faded on the sides, while his long, slender face sported a cropped beard that seemed longer on his chin. He ran the back of his index finger over his mustache. “Is your father here, boy?”

I gritted my teeth as I closed Whitman’s poetry collection over my forefinger and glared at the rude man. “My father is busy. How may I help you?”

He released a short scoff of impatience. “The only way you can help me is by bringing your father. We have some business that cannot be delayed.”

“Perhaps you can return in the afternoon, then,” I suggested coldly. Father would have grumbled if he heard me talk so impolitely to someone, customer or not.

The man’s eyes were devoid of warmth, of any emotion whatsoever. “I don’t have time to play games with little boys.”

Heat rose to my face. “I’m not a little boy.” Yet the petulance in my voice named me a liar. “The morning shift is mine, sir. If you need my father, visit in the afternoon.”

The man’s lips pressed together tightly, and the muscles in his face throbbed twice. “What’s your name?”

“Zain,” I said somewhat reluctantly, as if I had to give my name up to him. Later, I would think about this moment while lying awake in my bed, and I would understand that the man’s entire demeanor made me feel this way. He acted like he was owed the world. He acted like he owned it, and we were lucky to have a scrap of it. He acted like he gave it grudgingly and expected to be thanked.

“Zain,” he said slowly, committing my name to his memory for whatever purpose he might have for it. “I believe I have argued with you long enough. Few people make me wait, Zain. Those who do it once don’t make the same mistake again.”

I set the poetry collection on the counter and wiped my palms against my apron. This man made my skin prickle. His presence made the room cold, even with the door closed. The longer we stared at each other, the more I knew I didn’t want to allow this meeting with my father. It was none of my business, but I knew in my heart that he meant no good.

We were in this strange standoff for what felt like a dragging eternity. In truth, we stood for only a few short heartbeats before my father walked into the shop from the back room, where he had been preparing orders.

Father halted when he appeared in the shop, hunched a little, and was surprised at the sight of the man. “Mr. Blackthorne,” Father said. “I didn’t expect to see you. Welcome. Welcome. Please, would you come with me inside?” Father gestured at the hallway in the back.

“I’m glad to see you can spare a minute, Amar,” Mr. Blackthorne said.

“A minute, an hour. However long you need me for, Mr. Blackthorne,” Father said amiably, leaving me speechless, my mouth dry and tongue pressed against the roof.

As Father gestured again at the hallway that led to his tiny office in the back, Blackthorne shot me a look that nearly left a frostbite on me. He walked with his back straight and shoulders squared.

Kid…

I couldn’t believe the man had called me a kid. He couldn’t have been that much older than me. Eight years? Ten? Something like hate uncoiled in my stomach, but it wasn’t as simple as that. I realized that his presence made worry zing through me, and my father’s odd behavior only worsened my anxiety.

I tiptoed after them before I could consciously decide what to do and what not to do.

The sharp, strong scent of pines on a snowy mountain lingered where Blackthorne had passed. It crawled into my nostrils and soon merged with worry and crawling fear, the sense of alertness, the spiking pulse. It wasn’t a sweet, welcoming scent. Nothing about the man was sweet, open, or warm.

“…haven’t forgotten, even if you have.” His voice was clear, sharp, and to the point.

“How could I forget, Mr. Blackthorne? You insult me. I wouldn’t forget.” Father spoke in a hurry. “Please, let us talk.”

“Time for talking is over, Amar,” Blackthorne replied coolly“What I need is for the debt to be settled. You wouldn’t want to owe me. Not after I had requested the repayment several times, only to hear nothing back. I am not fond of leaving my home, you see, yet I had to do that for you, Amar.”

“I will not do business with street thugs, Mr. Blackthorne,” Father said firmly. “Please, do not send your men here. I will not give them a dime.”

“Is that so?” Blackthorne sounded almost amused if such a thing was possible.

“How can I know they won’t just take it?”

Blackthorne chuckled. Is that a chuckle? I wondered. “If that was your only concern, Amar, we could have solved it a year ago. As it stands, I am afraid it’s too late to change our agreement.”

“I have children,” Father said in a last, desperate effort. “You wouldn’t…”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Blackthorne said coolly. “You had children when we made the agreement. How does that affect the terms, Amar?”

Father’s silence was not a show of weakness. I had heard this silence once before. When I was very little, and my careless play knocked over an entire shelf of items, damaging much of the inventory, Father had appeared, and the silence that followed was like a distant storm on its way toward me.

“Do you have no heart?” he hissed.

“As a matter of fact, I do, but not the kind you imagine,” Blackthorne said. He let his own angry silence take over, then spoke again. “I will be in the city until Saturday. You better have the money, Amar, or we will have serious problems.”

In the next instant, I started to turn away from the office, but Blackthorne was out before I could get away. He stood in the hallway in front of me, pressed his lips into a tight line, stared at me for a long moment, then walked past me. “Goodbye, Zain.” He was out in the shop in two long paces and on the other side of it in four. The black car with tinted windows waited in front of our door when I followed Blackthorne to the front of the store, and then it drove off.

I didn’t see Father that day. Much later, when I grew too worried, I snuck to the back to see if he was in the office, but the office was empty. Mother was upstairs, and all three of my siblings were poring over their schoolwork. Yara was showing Karim how to multiply and divide, and Rami, in the middle of the three of them, read.

“Have you seen Father?” I asked no one in particular.

“Not since this morning,” Mother replied, lifting her gaze from the accounting papers that were laid out on the table. “Why? Has he not been in?”

“No,” I said reluctantly.

“Zain, have you worked all day?” Mother asked, a tinge of anger making the corners of her lips stiff.

It wasn’t the first time I had worked all day on my own. “Nobody came anyway,” I said. I had spent the day with Whitman and Wilde.

The concern wrinkled the lines around my mother’s eyes. She put a hand on my shoulder after getting up from the table. The worry rippled around the room, making Yara go still and Rami look up. Little Karim was too worried about multiplying seven and eight to be concerned about adult matters.

“I’ll be back a little later,” I said.

Mother nodded, but she ran through the list of evening questions even though she knew the answers. Had I locked up? Had I sorted the receipts? Was everything appropriately stored? Yes, yes, and yes. And when that was all done, I took my black coat from the hanger by the door, pulled my orange beanie down my curly locks of hair, and went out.

I wouldn’t find Father so easily. He had many friends in the neighborhood, and going from one to another was impossible. Besides, there was little I could get out of my father. He had been burdened by worries for months, and now, those worries took shape. It was a concerning shape of a wolf wearing a man’s body.

It wasn’t my father I searched for. It was Vivien Woodcock I needed.

Neon Nights was a spacious bar on the ground floor of a two-story, redbrick building. The line of windows facing the street on the lower story was lit with gentle lamps from the inside, and rainbow flags were displayed wherever they could fit. On Wednesday evenings such as this, the bar was a fairly quiet place, but weekends drew big crowds. The contrast was so stark that the place was unrecognizable.

I stopped by nearly every morning to deliver the produce for Vivien Woodcock’s kitchen. That was before the place opened in the morning, so I only ever saw Tristan, the chef, and whoever tended the bar in that shift. At times, Vivien would be there, too. Something about these people, the ones running the bar and spending their days in there, always tugged me to stay a little longer. I wouldn’t let myself. Sometimes, while I was unloading the deliveries, Bradley made me a sugary drink I couldn’t refuse. But it was the evenings I yearned for. It was the dancing, the mass of bodies pressing together, the slow descent into indecency that was so thematic for the weekend nights around here.

Even as I stepped into the bar, heads turned in my direction, all welcoming smiles. “Zain,” Bradley greeted from behind the bar, one hand on the beer tap, the other holding a glass. The golden bubbles rose from the bottom of the glass, foaming on the top. “What brings you here?”

“Changed your mind about joining the rascals?” Roman asked from the barstool.

“Er, I was hoping to see Vivien,” I said. I would have joined the banter if my need wasn’t as critical as it was. “Is she around?”

Roman waved his hand dramatically and pointed to the door in the back of the bar just as it opened to allow the matron of the bar to pass through. “Just like Beetlejuice.”

The guys laughed, and Vivien walked toward us, carrying something that looked like a photo album in her hands. It explained how Roman could predict her entrance. When she spotted me from behind the incredibly long eyelashes, her face lit up. “Well, well, well,” she said, putting the album between Bradley and Roman on the bar. To them, she said, “Now, you tell me if I never spent a summer in Sicily with David Bowie.”

The guys laughed harder, disbelief plain on their faces.

Vivien turned back to me. “Welcome, Zain. What are you drinking?”

“Um, nothing,” I said. “I can’t stay long.”

“He’s looking for you, Mama Viv,” Roman explained while flipping through the album. “Is this Elton John?”

But Vivien focused on me. She was a tall, curvy drag queen with glamorous wigs, elegant dresses, and a deep love for makeup. She was the only drag queen I knew, and I had never seen her perform onstage as she did every weekend. She also happened to have experience with ruthless men who wanted to take something away from her. Just a few weeks ago, a Manhattan developer showed up with bulldozers to turn this place into a luxury hotel. Vivien made her stand with Roman and the developer’s son, Everett, winning against the injustice. She was precisely the person to talk to no matter what the problem was. “What can I do for you, Zain?” Her hand touched my upper arm and gently nudged me away from Roman and Bradley.

We stood in the corner, and I rummaged through the mess inside my head. “Erm, this is going to sound strange, but I’m looking for a rich guy.”

“Aren’t we all, darling?” Vivien said and laughed. “I only joke.”

I chuckled, although heat rose into my face sooner than I could cool off. “I’m looking for a specific one. Blackthorne? I was hoping you would know where I could find him.”

“Dominic Blackthorne?” Vivien asked, bewildered.

“I don’t know his name,” I said. “Judging by the look on your face, I’d say that’s the one.”

“What on earth would you want to do with him?” Vivien asked, worry creeping into the very air between us. “That is a ruthless man if I ever knew one.”

“Ruthless? How so?” I asked, although I had a good idea already.

“They hardly call you the Baron of Manhattan for doing anything good, darling,” Vivien said in a hushed voice. “And I’m yet to meet a banker with a ticket to Heaven. But Dominic…” Vivien shook her head sadly. “He has pushed every competitor out of the business on a path of personal vendetta. Oh, I don’t know the details, darling, but I heard things. Some say that looking at him for too long is enough to put you on his list. He’s rich enough to have God in his pocket, let alone the various commissions whose job would be to keep him in check. And before I tell you anything more, I need to know if you offended him somehow.”

“I…don’t think so,” I said. “But my father…”

“I see,” Vivien said softly. “Well, if it’s a personal matter, it’s your right to decide what to do, but I would advise you to stay out of Dominic’s way.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. This was the same person who had crossed her arms before the bulldozers parked on the street and told a billionaire developer to get lost. She wasn’t afraid of powerful men.

“Dominic Blackthorne owns properties wherever your gaze goes, but he never spends time in any of them. I heard he lives alone in a mansion upstate. There’s his staff, of course, but you’ll never hear them speaking about Dominic or their work. Unusual for the industry and more than a little peculiar.” Vivien folded her hand with long, red acrylic nails on the counter. “It’s a big estate, darling. And he’s not the sort of man who would welcome uninvited visitors. The chances are you’ll never be near him again.”

I understood that. That was what I had expected to hear. However… “He said he would be in the city for a few days.”

Vivien nodded. “You are lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you slice it. If he’s here, he’s likely to stay in that ugly, pretentious building on the corner of Hudson and Christopher. He owns the top three floors, of course.”

Hudson and Christopher. That was on the edge of Hudson Burrow. While most of the neighborhood was made up of lower redbrick buildings, some developers managed to get permits to build luxurious buildings around us. That was one of them. “Thank you,” I said.

“I wish I didn’t know how to help,” Vivien said gravely as I turned around and walked away.

Dominic

My camera was off while I swirled the whiskey and ice in my glass, moving my gaze from one angry, concerned face to the next. Julian, Nicholas, and Maxwell, the Harvard pricks I once knew, simmered in frustrated silence.

I looked at each in turn while they waited for me to join the meeting. Julian Hale Jr., the heir to the diminished Hale wealth, was the smart one of the three. Blond, blue-eyed, with three-day stubble and dark circles around his eyes, Julian exhibited all the wonderful traits of a man who hadn’t slept in a while.

Nicholas Voss was the stupid one. That didn’t stop him from forming HVB with the other two. They needed him for his money. He had always been the easiest one to rope into new projects, so when his close friends, Julian and Maxwell, endeavored to create the most ambitious investment firm in the city, they pampered him into funding the damned thing.

And Maxwell Blake, the B of it all, was the lucky devil. Where Julian’s brain stopped short, Maxwell’s daring bridged the gaps. It was like he had a private audience with God whenever the market was the most unpredictable, and his bets paid off nine times out of ten. Truly, Maxwell was the one who made the company what it was today.

I knew them from before, of course. To me, they were the college brats who couldn’t fathom the fact that a poor kid could study at Harvard with a full scholarship. “He gives that sweet ass to the president every Saturday,” Julian had claimed. “Why else do you think he’s around?”

“You like it up your butt, Blackthorne?” Nicholas demanded aloud as if he had never considered that such things existed.

“Careful, Nicky,” Maxwell whispered. “If you bend down without looking over your shoulder, he might slip it in before you know it.”

“Nah, you won’t feel a thing,” Julian assured their stupid, wealthy pet.

The three of them had set the tone for the rest of my time at Harvard. Things only got worse after that first encounter. They weren’t the only ones, but they were the first. They were the template for all the spoiled sons of wealthy fathers I came across throughout my life.

I fingered my glass and tilted it to splash some woody, smoky whiskey over my tongue. It tasted like victory. The work I had done over the last ten years had brought me here purely because this was why I did anything. I would savor it. I had to savor it.

The sweat on Julian’s tanned forehead said he had a good idea of why we were here. He suspected it, at least. It was delicious.

My pulse sped up as I pictured the next ten minutes: their stupid, surprised faces and sheer disbelief. It was like the final crescendo to a very long, very overdue symphony.

When my people had set up the meeting, my name was dropped from the conversations. It was an indulgence, and I wouldn’t apologize for it. Instead, I leaned back in my chair and watched the three men slowly speculate what was up.

“Do you think they’re watching us?” Nicholas asked.

“Don’t be stupid, Nicky,” Julian said, his voice anything but certain. “What psycho would do that?”

The black square lit up, and the three men stopped speaking, their lips parting. My office was dimly lit, but the light from the screen was enough to reveal my face.

“Oh, shit,” Maxwell said.

“Right,” Julian muttered. “I stand corrected.”

I let their clamoring die down. Still watching, I took another sip of my whiskey. “Gentlemen, thank you for accommodating my schedule.”

“If I knew whose schedule it was, Blackthorne…” Julian began.

“There’s no need for that,” I said, lifting my hand to stop him there. “I won’t keep you long. This is merely a courtesy call.” Liar , I told myself and resisted a smirk. I just want to see your faces .

“I don’t believe we owe you any courtesy,” Julian said.

“You are mistaken,” I explained patiently, almost giddy that I got to do it. “I am doing you a favor by informing you before the remaining shareholders with small stakes are all gathered tomorrow morning. We are scheduled for nine, are we not?”

“We?” Julian asked, outraged. “What are you talking about, Blackthorne?”

“Let me get down to business, shall I?” I asked, my voice dropping low.

The door of my office creaked open. My valet stood in the light that poured in from the hallway. “Sir, a visitor.”

“Not now, Orwell,” I said with the even tone of an infinitely patient man. Perhaps that was a stretch, but the delight of this evening was enough to soothe my temper.

“Very well, sir,” Orwell said and shut the door.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said politely to the three assholes on the screen. Even Julian’s tan was receding as blood drained from his face. “Where was I? Ah, yes. I wish to give you a fair warning so you don’t look like utter morons before the remaining shareholders in the morning. However much I would like to make fools out of you, it’s just poor taste, don’t you agree? The short version of it is that as of six in the afternoon, I am the majority owner of HVB. The longer version is that I will be proposing several minor changes in the early hours of the next morning, such as the change of the board members, as I’m sure you fully understand. After all, who would want to be around someone who can so easily slip it in while you’re not looking? Isn’t that right, Blake?” I barely contained my anger as it threatened to rip away from the cool politeness.

The three men stared at their screens, wide-eyed and stunned. Julian was the first to recover. “That can’t be right.” He spoke to someone off-screen while Voss, ever the slow one, asked if I was pulling a prank. “What do you mean?” Julian demanded.

“Whoever you are speaking to, Hale, means precisely this. When you panicked about the share sales last week, suspecting a takeover, you were far too late,” I said.

“There are three of us, Blackthorne,” Julian snapped.

Of course, the three of them would have ensured they had the majority.

“What did you suspect, Julian?” Maxwell asked, sweat beading on his tired face. “What sales?”

Julian brushed it off. “Unimportant, Max. Some of the smaller shareholders were selling to various funds.”

“So why were you worried?” Maxwell demanded.

“Because it was faster than usual,” Julian said, running out of patience.

“The funds are mine, and so are your shares, kids,” I said.

Nicholas seemed completely caught off guard, not fully understanding how anything worked. Maxwell wiped his brow with a handkerchief. But Julian refused to believe me. “No, no, no, Blackthorne. Even if you bought all of them, you’re still short of a majority.”

“I’m growing tired of this,” I admitted. “Truthfully, I hoped for more. You would absolutely be right, except for one thing. Isn’t that so, Blake? When you got cocky calling the shots with your risky investments, you wanted to test your luck elsewhere. Not much of a poker player, are you? You see, gentlemen, your trusted friend has mounted a considerable gambling debt, and just this afternoon, he finalized a sale of a significant portion of his shares to Evergreen Investments. As it happens, my holding company is the sole owner of that firm.”

“You did what?” Julian snapped.

“You should have fucking told me you suspected foul play,” Max yelled back.

“Foul?” I asked. “You wound me. I would never slip it from behind without giving you a chance to fight back. Any fool would have done their due diligence, Blake. I believe that covers it for tonight. I will see you in my new conference room at nine in the morning. I believe you have the address.”

“You’ll never get inside the building,” Julian growled.

“Remind me who is on security. Rogers?” I asked.

Julian was hesitant for a moment. “That’s right,” he muttered.

“Rogers is fired,” I said. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

I disconnected from the call and stared at the screen of my laptop. I had hoped for more, although I couldn’t tell what. Perhaps I had hoped all three of them would have imploded with devastation and disappointment. Perhaps I had hoped for their heads to fall off with grief. I had just taken their biggest sandbox, their favorite toy. They had managed the investments well enough to get plenty for themselves. Corporate jets, extended trips to exotic locations, and lavish parties on company tabs were just the tip of the iceberg.

They fully understood that I intended to force the sale of the remaining shares once my people occupied the board seats. The three assholes would be well awarded, but the stain would follow them forever. No price was too high for that, and I would make them an offer glazed in honey and cocaine and whatever else they would drool over.

I shut the lid of my laptop and sank back into my chair.

Fuck them.

I only wished I could see them inform their rich families of their failure to keep the control of the company in their hands. One by one, I would get them all. When they owned little more than thick bank accounts, I would send them to hell with probes of all kinds. Nobody was that rich for that long without breaking some rules. I knew that firsthand.

If only I could feel a bit more satisfied, dammit. I earned that much, didn’t I?

The knock on my door reminded me that somebody was waiting for me. I held my breath and wondered who on earth needed me this late. Had someone died? I couldn’t recall anyone whose death would have concerned me. But Orwell appeared at the door, and I sighed.

“Bring them in,” I said.

I had no idea how entertaining this evening would get.