Chapter 10

Isip my tequila, mentally bemoaning the fact that people are so predictable. It’s a plus for me, really, allowing me to see the chessboard of life and plan accordingly. But sometimes, a bit of a twist would be nice.

I smirk to myself, reaching over to the bar in the back of my limo to grab a lime wedge. I squeeze it into the clear alcohol and shake it around, mixing the sour into the expensive alcohol. “A twist indeed,” I say to the empty backseat.

The divider between the driver and me lowers. “Excuse me, sir. We seem to have picked up a tail. Would you like for me to lose them or continue on to your meeting?”

I glance over my shoulder, only seeing the bright round lights of the cars around us on the streets of Roseboro.

Streets that I own, control, and paved. When I came to Roseboro, it was a nothing town, in a depression from lack of employment and in the midst of a mass-exodus of families. Through my skill and nurturing, I’ve returned life to this city.

I’m the reason housing prices in this town have risen every year for twenty years and why the town’s high school has grown from a podunk afterthought to one of the biggest and best schools in the entire state.

The reason this town exists is me.

And the city is forgetting that. They mock me, with terms like ‘Black to Yellow’ to describe the workers who leave me to go work for Golden Boy.

Even worse are those who leave to become successful on their own, using the things they learned from me to compete against my company. As if they don’t owe me some loyalty for the changes I’ve brought to Roseboro and to their piddly lives.

I purse my lips as the tequila burns my tongue and gums, holding it in my mouth until it becomes a light numbness before swallowing the sip, having drawn out every molecule of flavoring from the potion. The burn and subtle vanilla and oak flavors help me delay my anger. To focus.

And I have much to focus on.

I finally answer the driver, “Drive around for a bit. I’ll be a little late for my meeting, but it’s an acceptable delay.”

He nods silently, the divider quietly returning to its place a moment later.

I know you’re following me, Gabriel Jackson. The question is why?

I’d hired him because he’s the best in the business, able to adapt and deliver under a variety of circumstances. Silent or bold, messy or clean, the appearance of an accident or message-sending publicity . . . whatever your needs, he can meet them, and according to reputation, has done so with unequivocal success. I’d known his methods are precise, something I can appreciate, but it seems he’s getting cold feet.

It can only be because of her.

This delay has become untenable, his questions as to my motivation less amusing and more disrespectful, and I’m reaching the end of my patience. Especially as he seems to be more interested in my behaviors than those of his contracted prey.

That’s why I have already hired a private investigator to follow Mr. Jackson. Not a competing hitman, at least not yet. But rather a man skilled at being invisible. I like the idea of keeping my pawns compartmentalized, only holding a portion of the bigger picture I readily see.

His reports show that Gabriel’s contact with Isabella is perhaps more intimate than I’d predicted, though he did say that Gabriel investigated her home today, so maybe he’s not entirely been led astray by her feminine wiles.

Considering that she used tears and a false story to implicate my previous associate, I’m not willing to put anything past the seemingly innocuous Isabella Turner.

“You should hurry, Mr. Jackson,” I whisper to the dark night, taking another sip of tequila. “My patience is running thin.”