Chapter 1

"Boss, we've got a problem at the Bayshore house."

Angelo Voltini released a long, low groan over the sushi combo plate that had just been delivered to his table, positive he wouldn't enjoy his favorite spicy salmon roll now. Yes, he'd planned on this being a working lunch, which was why he'd answered Otis Gates's call at all, but now his previously hungry stomach shriveled into an angry ball of anxiety.

"What's wrong at Bayshore?" Angelo asked, a touch snappier than he'd intended. Otis's job was to inform Angelo of issues at the renovation sites so they could brainstorm solutions together, instead of simply fixing the problem on his own. Angelo was extremely hands-on in all stages of his business, but especially when it came to spending un-budgeted money. Extra-especially when it was a job for a client and not his own home-flip project.

The remodel on Bayshore Drive was his own flip, but still. Problems gave him stomach aches, and his doctor was already on him about a possible ulcer.

"Well, when we ripped up the ceramic tiles around the living room fireplace," Otis said, "we found old oak hardwood under there."

"How is finding original hardwood floors a problem?" The house had been built in 1943 and they'd already found hardwood under the ugly green kitchen linoleum and the downstairs study. Finding more shouldn't surprise anyone.

"It's not the hardwood, boss, it's the sub-floor. There's lotsa rot under there, and we may have to replace the whole living room sub-floor."

Angelo resisted the urge to stab a chopstick right through his eye. Replacing the sub-floor meant removing all the original hardwood to get at it, ripping out the rot problem, and then laying new flooring. It was not an expense Angelo had anticipated, but the living room was the focal point of this renovation. And Angelo had too much pride in his work to ever ignore such a serious structural problem, or to half-ass the repair. "Do you think it's the entire living room or just around the fireplace?"

"Hard to know until we get in there and start removing the hardwood. Hopefully, it's contained and not the whole floor."

"How much extra if it's the whole thing?"

Otis's estimate made his already angry stomach tighten up a little more. Angelo was already overextended on two other projects, and he had a fourth, completed house that had been sitting on the market for a month without a bite. Even the open house had been sparsely attended, which was unusual when his name was on the lawn sign. He really needed to get some client renovation bites, but the market for that in the Reynolds area had dried up in the last year or so, and Angelo had no idea why.

Please, just around the fireplace. Please, just around the fireplace. Please.

"Do the repairs," Angelo said through gritted teeth.

"You got it. Later, boss."

"Yeah." He chewed on two antacids before digging into his sushi. He wasn't hungry anymore but he wasn't about to waste it. Not when he was starting to pinch his nickels for the first time in ten years, since his first solo flip netted him a cool quarter-million in profit. Profit he'd immediately reinvested in a new renovation, just like his mentor had taught him. Those early lessons had served Angelo well for a long time.

The final lesson? He'd never forget it. Just like he'd never forget the phone call nearly four years ago now, when Joe Tilly called him from the police station asking for Angelo to come bail him out. Angelo hadn't asked questions, not even when he found out Joe had been arrested for basically stealing investment money from clients to cover his gambling addiction. He simply hadn't believed that the man who'd invested years of his own time in Angelo, who'd been like a surrogate father in many ways, could be guilty of ripping off his clients and investment partners. Angelo stood by Joe and supported him to anyone who would listen.

Then the investigations began. Proof surfaced, and it shattered the rose-colored glasses through which Angelo had viewed his old mentor. But it was too late to distance himself, and Angelo's own credibility took a big hit, even though he was one-hundred-percent professional with everyone he worked with and had never mismanaged so much as a nickel of anyone's money.

He ran professional crews on all his properties, he expected everyone to show up and do their jobs as professionally as possible, and he did the same damned thing. No fucking around, no bullshit.

Yes, Angelo fucked around off-hours, but never on the job, and he never would. Had he been tempted? Hello, dude with a high sex drive. Had he ever sampled? Never within three months of having had a working relationship. His brief fling with a tailor who'd created six rooms worth of custom window drapes for a flip two years ago had happened at exactly the three-month mark of the last check clearing.

He'd already lost his mentor and father-figure. He would not lose a business he'd spent nearly half his life building, not while he had breath in his lungs and a few pennies in his pocket. A true artist could put lipstick on a pig and call her a work of art. A true salesman could take that art and sell it for a cool quarter-mil without breaking a sweat.

Angelo was both artist and salesman.

An artist and salesman who was really regretting all that wasabi with his sushi, so he paid his bill and headed home-for-now. Russell loved to pick on him about Angelo's habit of crashing in one of his renovation homes, when he owned the house Russell and Patrick lived in, as well as the carriage house Bryan Gillespie rented, so Angelo had his pick of guest rooms. And while those available rooms sometimes seemed like a destination oasis compared to his usual mattress on the floor and storage bins, he couldn't beat his own in-progress renos for privacy and security. After raw materials were stolen overnight on his first solo reno, Angelo never scrimped on cameras and motion sensors on his sites.

This past week, he'd actually been staying at his completed, for-sale home on Mulberry Court. Three of the rooms (kitchen, living room and master bedroom) were still staged, so Angelo just hid his suitcase in the hall closet and stored his toiletries whenever the Realtor told him they had a viewing (not as frequent as he hoped). And despite a deep-rooted Italian heritage and an aunt who owned a pizza business, Angelo didn't cook, so his flawlessly designed kitchen remained spotless.

The entire house was spotless and…well, empty. Angelo stood in the foyer of what had once been a boxy, claustrophobic mid-century rancher and was now an open-floor-plan dream starter home for a young family. He could see a couple with a kid, kind of like Russ, Patrick and Frog, running around this house, having birthday parties and filling the walls with photographs and memories. A real life lived here instead of a few generic paintings to suggest what the space could be one day.

The light, airy house was so far removed from the home he'd grown up in that he sometimes didn't believe his own past had really occurred—not until he went to Aunt Rita's dark, cramped house for a family dinner and remembered yeah, he'd lived there for half his life. Four kids and multiple adults in three bedrooms had been a tight fit, but they'd managed. Kind of.

He loved his family, but there were good reasons Angelo valued his space and privacy.

Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, Angelo didn't have any work-specific plans for the rest of the day that required driving, so he helped himself to an artisan beer from the fridge and flopped onto the sofa with his tablet. No sense in hauling around a TV and streaming system when everything fit nicely on a twelve-inch screen.

He'd just settled in to watch some mindless spouse-swap show when his cell rang. He groaned, half-expecting it to be Otis with another expensive problem, and his heart skipped at the name: Dennis Darrow. Joe's lawyer. He stared at the screen, unwilling to answer because it could only be bad news, and he didn't want to hear more bad news today.

Unheard voicemails drove him bananas, so he put his sweating beer on the floor and answered the call. "Mr. Darrow."

"Mr. Voltini? It's Dennis Darrow."

No shit."Yes, I know. What can I do for you?"

"I'm afraid I have bad news to relay, Mr. Voltini. Joe Tilly passed away this morning."

Angelo closed his eyes against the sudden wave of emotion blurring his vision. "I see. How?" Too many years of watching movies and TV shows about prisons gave him horrible images of his old mentor being shanked by a sharpened toothbrush handle, or bleeding internally from unknowingly consuming ground glass.

"It looks like a massive heart attack. His cellmate said Joe was complaining of fatigue and a headache last night, and when the lights came on for roll call, Joe was dead in his bunk."

He could have been smothered by his roommate. "Are they positive it was a heart attack?"

"That was the prison doctor's preliminary assessment, but I did request an official autopsy be done, just in case." Before Angelo could take any minor amount of comfort in knowing Joe's lawyer wanted the truth, Darrow ruined it with, "As his only named beneficiary, you could be looking at a big wrongful death lawsuit if it wasn't a heart attack."

Angelo groaned. "Whatever. What happens after the autopsy?"

"They'll release the body to the funeral home of your choice. After that, the arrangements are yours. Along with his final remaining assets."

"His assets?"

"Yes." If one word could carry all the smugness of two dozen defense attorneys with airtight client alibis, Darrow managed it. "As you know, Joe had no children, and no family who associated with him. You are named in his will as his sole beneficiary, once all outstanding bills are settled."

"I don't…Joe lost everything after all those allegations came out. How can he have any assets for me to inherit?"

"That's a conversation for us to have in person, young man. I also have a private letter for you, from Joe, for you to read in the event of his passing. Are you available to stop by my office this week?"

"Yes. Hell, I can come over right now." While he was eager to read this letter from Joe, he was more eager to know exactly what those assets were and how quickly he could liquidate them. This was exactly what his own struggling business needed! An influx of cash to settle a few of his own debts, and give him a cushion to live on until the housing market in and around Reynolds picked up again.

"One moment." Clicking sounds echoed from Darrow's end of the phone. "I can squeeze you in at 3:45 this afternoon."

"I'll be there. See you in a bit. Wait, do I need to bring anything?"

"Not for this meeting."

Angelo had been to Darrow's office twice since Joe's arrest, so he didn't need to ask for the address. He sucked down the beer, because it was expensive and he wasn't going to waste it. His thumb hovered over Russell's contact while he paced the foyer, not quite needing to leave yet, but now too anxious to sit still. Russell was his conscience and sounding board and very best friend, and he'd listen while Angelo verbally barfed this latest drama all over him. But Russell would probably ask a lot of questions, and right now, Angelo didn't have many answers.

Call later. Get info first.

Good plan. There were fewer things Angelo disliked more than heading into a situation without the proper information and being blindsided. Knowledge was always an advantage, no matter the game or stakes—something Joe had taught him well.

The unwanted mental image of Joe, dead and cold on a metal autopsy table, made his eyes burn again and his too-full stomach slosh unhappily. His skin was too hot, his breaths coming too fucking fast. Angelo bolted, and he barely made it into the downstairs bathroom before upchucking the beer and his lunch into the bowl. He vomited until all he had left were a few dry heaves and a lot of tears and snot.

Gross. But I feel better.

He washed his face, which was still weirdly blotchy, but hopefully that would clear up on the drive to Darrow's office. Plus, his mentor had just died. He was allowed to look like a rumpled mess, wasn't he?

While he drove, he blasted his Beatles playlist as loudly as his ears could stand, uncaring of the occasional glare he got from other drivers or pedestrians when he stopped. One of the few loves (besides food) his mother had instilled in him was The Beatles. Over the years, he'd gone from vinyl to cassettes to CD's to all digital albums, and he sometimes regretted giving away things that would have netted quite a bit of money nowadays.

Oh well, no sense in dwelling on the past, so he sang along to Tomorrow Never Knows and focused on the road.

Darrow's private practice was situated in a small office building with a dozen other names on the exterior sign that Angelo ignored. He rode the elevator up to the third floor and walked into the reception area at exactly 3:45. Darrow's assistant let him through to the inner office, which looked like every single law show set Angelo had ever seen on television, right down to the mahogany built-ins and matching desk, and the monochromatic rows of law books.

Functional and boring.

"Mr. Voltini," Darrow said as he stood. He didn't bother buttoning his suit jacket, because the instant he shook Angelo's hand across the desk, he sat back down. "How are you holding up?"

"Well, I'm here without a speeding ticket," was all Angelo could think to say. He perched on the edge of a stiff faux-leather armchair. "I'm glad we could do this today and get it over with."

"Time is likely of the essence, yes."

That was a weird way to phrase things but Angelo did appreciate the speed with which Darrow was working to finalize Joe's estate. "Do we have to do some sort of official reading of the will? Or can we skip that, since it's just you and me?"

"We don't have to be nearly as formal as you see in movies, Mr. Voltini. As I said on the phone, you are the only beneficiary named in Mr. Tilly's last will and testament, which was amended, signed and notarized three weeks before his trial began."

"He changed his will before the trial?" Had Joe known things wouldn't go in his favor, because the bastard was guilty? That there was tangible proof he'd done the things he was accused of and a jury would have no choice but to convict him?

"Yes, he did. Mr. Tilly had some undisclosed assets he wanted you to have in the event of his death, but one of those assets comes with a stipulation. He wrote a letter to you describing the stipulation, and my instructions were to give you this letter before revealing anything else."

Angelo's grief for his former mentor battled with curiosity that was only stoked by these stipulations. Darrow slid a legal-size manila envelope across the desk. Angelo picked it up, pinched the little metal clasp, and borrowed a letter opener from Darrow's desk so he didn't slice his fingertip. A single sheet of yellow legal paper slid out, covered in Joe's familiar, loopy cursive.

"I don't have to read this out loud, do I?" Angelo asked.

"No, Mr. Tilly asked me to read it before we sealed it, so I know what it says. Please, go ahead."

"Thanks."

He wished the armchair swiveled so he could read without the pressure of Darrow's gaze on him. All he could do was angle slightly to the left, hold up the paper, and read the last direct communication he'd ever get from Joe.

"My dear friend Angelo,

Not to borrow a cliché, but if you are reading this then I have met my demise, be it of natural or unnatural causes. If it be the former, then mourn me and move on. If the latter, find the son of a bitch responsible and make sure they're punished. Either way, I am gone, and all that is left is what I leave behind.

When we first met, you were an eager student of finance and design, two loves that have served us both well in our industry. I saw so much of myself in you, and I am so proud of the man you have become, and of the business you have cultivated through perseverance, ingenuity, and true talent. I wish I could be there to watch you continue to grow as both a designer, an entrepreneur, and a human being.

As I said, I see so much of myself in you, including my incorrigible independent streak. I learned from a young age to depend solely upon myself, to not trust others to have my best interests at heart, and that mindset has permeated my entire life. It has also left me a man in his fifties with zero close relationships, no spouse, no children, and now, no second chances."

Angelo stopped reading to clear his throat a few times. He appreciated the sentiments from Joe, as well as the compliments, but the finality of the note wasn't lost on him. Joe's trial hadn't even begun yet, but he'd written this like a man who knew he was going away. Who was resigned to having failed at something important and who didn't want his protégé to fall into the same traps and end up alone with only a lawyer to confide in.

He should have gone to visit Joe at least once; but what would he have really said to the man?

"If I did one thing right, my boy, it was absorbing a nugget of wisdom my grandfather gave me when I was just a boy. Wisdom I didn't truly understand until I was an adult: put it away for a rainy day. To a child, I thought he meant something as prosaic as having a raincoat and galoshes in case of bad weather. But as a young man who began coming into money, real sums of money, I realized he meant to put away money in case of emergency.

"So I opened an off-shore account, and with each tax quarter, I put money in that account. A small percentage of my own profits that I could not touch until at least the age of sixty, and only then if I decided it was time to retire. And with a gambling addiction that ruined my own father, I made that account tamper-proof. Once the money was in it, it was there to stay until I turned sixty or I passed away.

Well, my boy, with that retirement coming much earlier than I expected, I need that money to go to someone worthy of it when I die. I need it to go to you, Angelo. You are the closest thing I ever had to a son, and if I can offer you one small piece of fatherly advice it is this: be generous.

Be generous with your time and your heart and your life, Angelo. Don't wake up one day, realize you're fifty-four, and that life has passed you by without so much as a wave in your direction. This means that I have attached a stipulation to you acquiring access to this account, as well as whatever other assets of mine still remain after all outstanding debts are paid. If you are as lucky in life as you are in business, then you will find yourself already in the position to meet the stipulation, and I sincerely hope you are. If not…well, dear boy, you're still young and full of possibilities.

I hope you succeed where I have failed. No matter what you think of me now, I still think of you fondly and wish you only happiness. Until we meet again…

Joseph Q. Tilly

Waves of grief and nostalgia passed through him at the familiar sight of Joe's signature, followed by a highlight reel of so many memories of Joe. Sharing a snort of bourbon in Joe's home office to celebrate a successful sale; bitching about being single while also celebrating no attachments; planning their dream retirement homes in personal sketchbooks no one else ever got to see.

"Where is Joe's sketchbook?" Angelo asked. He'd cleaned out and boxed up Joe's office after his sentencing hearing, as a final favor to Joe before he went away for eight years, and he didn't remember seeing it. He also hadn't thought about it until just now. Angelo's own sketchbook was in one of a few boxes that he was storing in the attic of his Jaynestown Road house.

"It may be in the box of personal effects he asked me to give to you upon the reading of his will and final letter." Darrow lifted a taped banker's box from the floor and put it on his desk. "This is for you."

"Thanks. I guess." Angelo started to stand so he could retrieve and open the box, but paused. "So do I meet this stipulation or what?" He turned the letter over, but saw no additional instructions. "What is it?"

Darrow opened a leather folder on his desk. "Mr. Tilly's stipulation to you receiving control of this personal account is proof of at least six months of a happy, loving relationship, consecutively, with the same person, preferably including but not limited to marriage. An official declaration of commitment from you both is acceptable."

Well, outside of a made-for-TV rom-com, that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard in his life. "No really, what's the actual stipulation."

"That is the stipulation, Mr. Voltini. Mr. Tilly's wish is, as he puts it in these instructions, for Angelo to find the kind of love and companionship in his life that I only dreamed about and squandered all true chances of having for myself."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Was he of sound mind when he came up with this bullshit stipulation? Six months of a serious relationship? This from Joe Tilly? His entire life motto was sex-without-strings, and not getting his life tangled up with someone else's." And how exactly was Angelo supposed to prove he'd been with someone that long?

"Mr. Tilly seems to have changed his mind during his final weeks as a free man."

"And this is legal?"

"These were his wishes, and as the executor of his estate, it's my duty to abide by them. I take it you are not currently married or seriously involved?"

Angelo flashed his left hand at the lawyer. "No." He nearly blurted out that marriage was the last thing on his mind, what with his business teetering on a razor's edge between collapse and solvency, but Darrow didn't need to know anything else about Angelo's private life. Not if Angelo was going to find a way to work this to his advantage. "I have been seeing someone, though. It's recently gotten more serious."

"Excellent." Darrow picked up a pen. "When did you two meet?"

His brain whirred with just enough truth that it wasn't a lie. He'd dated Nat for about a month back in the fall, but his instincts quickly informed him that wasn't an option for the simple reason that Nat had dumped his ass before Halloween. If that had actually lasted, or had a chance of being rekindled, Angelo could have said they'd been together for five months. He nearly blurted out Russell's name, but Russell was very much taken and would be furious if Angelo did anything to hurt his relationship with Patrick. And even though millions of dollar signs were dancing in Angelo's head, he'd never hurt his best friend for money—even Angelo had a few lines he wouldn't cross.

"We met for the first time in October," Angelo found himself saying, his buzzing brain filling in the true details he'd brought in as part of this brand-new lie. He had met this person in October, and Angelo had been both drunk and been punched by him for a perceived insult to Russell. "But we didn't really start to see each other regularly until after Thanksgiving." Again, perfectly true, once the man in question began working for Angelo's construction foreman Otis.

"I see." Darrow's pleasant smile held no hint he didn't believe Angelo, or that he saw through these little white lies. Maybe he wanted to believe Angelo for his client's sake—or so he could see that Joe's final wish was fulfilled, hand over the inheritance, and close this chapter of his professional life. "And what is this lucky person's name?"

"Bryan," Angelo said truthfully. "His name is Bryan Gillespie. And I've never been happier in my life."

Bryan is going to kill me for this. I am so dead.