The name hit Conrad Yates like a bucket of ice water. Whatever pleasant buzz the evening's drinks had given him evaporated instantly, and he was already pushing back from the private dining room table before his brain caught up with his legs. He slipped out of the booth, weaving past colleagues with a muttered excuse, and ducked into the corridor where restaurant noise faded to a low murmur.He put on his most affable tone. "Well, if it isn't Curry himself. Sorry about that, I had no idea this was your number." He forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've had a few drinks tonight. What can I do for you?"His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. The last time he'd crossed paths with Curry Pitt, the man had shown him mercy he did not deserve. One word to Thaddeus Zane, and Conrad would have been out on the street with nothing but a stain on his resume. He still remembered the cold certainty of that moment, his entire career dangling by a thre

The words settled over the boardroom like a cold front. Matriarch Adelaide Turner's expression, already severe, darkened further, the lines around her mouth deepening into something rigid and unforgiving. No one at the table dared to breathe too loudly.Mika couldn't stand it any longer. She rose from her seat and crossed to Curry's side, placing a hand lightly on his arm and giving him a small shake of her head. The message was clear enough: you've made your point, don't push this any further.Curry glanced at her, then back at the old woman seated at the head of the table. His voice remained level, unhurried, as though he were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. "When I told you all to kneel, I wasn't speaking out of anger. And I'm not here to cause trouble for its own sake."He let that land before continuing. "What I'd like is for things to be handled fairly. Not this pattern of an archaic boys' club mentality, of stacking the deck with loyalis

The office reeked of stale cigar smoke and leather polish. Warrick Blackwood leaned back behind his mahogany desk, fingers laced across his stomach, appraising Mika Turner the way a buyer might size up merchandise at auction."So, Ms. Turner, what do you say?" He rubbed his palms together, the sound dry and deliberate. "Keep me happy tonight and seven hundred thousand dollars hits your company's account tomorrow morning. Everybody wins."Mika's teeth sank into her lower lip until she tasted iron, her nails biting into her palms. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, filling the silence she couldn't."Mr. Blackwood, please." Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "I'm married."He let out a contemptuous laugh through his nose. "Oh, I'm aware. You married a former inmate, didn't you? Your father's a fool, threw away a perfectly good daughter on a convict."Mika said nothing. Her jaw ached from clenching.Blackwood planted both hands on the desk and p

Nobody hit Brock Tiernan. That was a rule as fundamental as gravity. You could cheat him at cards, owe him money a month too long, even talk behind his back if you were stupid enough, but you never raised a hand to him. Yet there stood Curry, looking as unbothered as a man who had swatted a fly off his sleeve, while Brock's cheeks burned crimson with the imprint of his open palm."You've got a death wish, kid!" one of Brock's men snarled, stepping forward. "You just hit Brock, and you think you're walking out of here?"The enforcers surged forward, a wall of tattoos and fury, but Brock whipped around before any of them could take another step."Shut your mouths." His voice cracked like a whip, freezing them where they stood. The rage that should have been directed outward had turned inward, pulling the bravado from his posture like air from a balloon. His face had gone the color of a bruised plum. When he spoke again, there was a tremor none of his men had ever heard