The Beggar’s Throne

Chapter Twenty Three

Jake sat in the corner booth of an all-night diner, staring at the cold coffee in front of him. The neon lights flickered overhead, washing the chipped table in pale blue. His burner phone buzzed twice. He didn’t bother answering—Vivian had made herself clear. The Syndicate had pulled back every dime, every bit of muscle. He was alone.

He ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t slept in two days, not since Amanda dumped the ledgers in the DA’s lap. He could see the chain reaction she’d set off from miles away—seized accounts, questions from men who shouldn’t be asking questions, quiet threats drifting in through half-burned phones.

A waitress dropped the check at his table. Jake didn’t move. He flipped his old Sullivan family signet ring in his fingers, the gold dulled by years in drawers and glove boxes. His father’s legacy—what did that mean now? Darius Holt was dead, Diane was breathing free air again, and Amanda was no one’s fool anymore. He’d turned her into exactly what he’d alwa