The Note by Natalie Wrye (urban books to read .TXT) 📗

“And since one of New York’s formerly most respected members could now possibly be a murderer, I thought you’d want to hear this information upfront and as soon as possible.” My lips tighten as Cyn lightly taunts me with the information. “Or maybe it’s still too early for this…”

I let the silence linger in the air. The sound of incoming rain falling outside my huge floor-to-ceiling windows punctuating her point, and I’m practically shitting myself where I stand, my attention abruptly alert as I straighten my still damp back, gazing outside onto the graying New York City horizon with a curious glance that starts to slant.

Just the mention of the fraudulent financier makes the air thicken. I admit: I never liked the man. Even when Grandfather Quinn first invited us to do business with him.

Former New York City golden boy Chris Jackson once had the kind of clout that created dynasties.

After relocating his family from Kansas City decades before, he ran countrywide operations from his financial firm at Jackson Enterprises in Manhattan. A sadist in a suit with a dark smile, he rolled Manhattan finance with an iron fist wrapped in silk, juggling some of New York City’s highest residents in his hands.

Including judges, congressmen, gang affiliates and mafia.

His influence knew no bounds.

I squint, leveling my eyes at nothing at the thought that my family and company could be caught in his twisted web. One question burns brighter than the others in my brain.

“Who?”

I take a seat on the edge of the granite counter, impatience holding me rapt to the phone. I don’t even have to specify what I mean by the “Who?”

Cyn knows exactly what I mean when I ask the question. A question of Chris Jackson would muddy his impossibly untouched hands with. A question of who he could have possibly murdered.

My closest friend huffs, her throaty voice even thicker than before. “An associate. That’s who. And that’s all I know. Apparently, the charges haven’t been brought up yet. The death was previously listed as natural causes. Now the city’s coroner is not so sure.”

I hold in my impatience for every question I want to ask, confusion clouding my brain as I think of how I didn’t know this before.

“Are you serious about this, Cyn? You’re not just fucking with me?” My voice ends on a strained croak. I feel my neck flush bright red.

“As serious as one could be when talking about the subject of murder.”

One eyebrow cocks. “And you have proof of this?”

“Nearly.” I nudge the breakfast bag aside as Cyn fumbles and frets with another stack of papers on the end of her line. She finally sighs seconds later.

“Ah, here it is.” Her voice is an excited exhale. “Apparently, a man known as Vittorio Sollecito—former mob boss, current prisoner—is up for parole, and he says he has info that could tie Jackson explicitly to a recent murder.” She exhales loudly, and the sound reverberates in my quiet kitchen. I feel a chill.

“My source,” Cyn continues, “and very good friend—has reason to believe that this man, Vittorio, who’s one of Chris Jackson’s proven associates—might be the key to uncovering a contract taken out on the life of another of Chris’s associates.” My chest squeezes as I listen in. “Turns out that Vittorio is currently up for his parole hearing, and in a show of good will to the court, he’s apparently willing to testify to Chris Jackson’s involvement.”

“Apparently?” The peach in my hand almost squeals as I clutch it tighter.

The chest squeeze turns to a compress. “My friend thinks it’s only a matter of time before that ‘apparent’ show of help becomes a ‘certainty,’ Noah. But he can’t guarantee either way.”

I lean back on the dark kitchen counter, letting my eyes hit the ceiling, the thought of being in bed with a killer making my blood run cold. The window behind me darkens with the swirling thunderstorms stretching towards New York City just outside, and though ominous as hell, I welcome them.

I welcome the storm to come, knowing that I’m ready to go to battle.

My back does its best imitation of a rod as I sit straight. “Well, Cynthia Stratford, I’d better hope that your friend can guarantee just that.” I grip the peach in my hand harder. “Because if we can’t, then we’d better back off now. Accusing a man as well-connected as Chris Jackson of murder is no easy feat.”

“But if we have to, I would hope that this company is up to the task.”

I nod. “I’ll make sure we are.”

The reality is… I can’t be sure of anything. Not when so much uncertainty is in the air.

I flip the peach back in the bag, heading for the front door.

I need to talk to Jase. Now.

Because the future of this company can’t survive without investors, and investors won’t spend another cent with us if they find out we’ve been connected to a potential murderer.

Turns out Lachlan was right; Hell was freezing over.

Finding my father’s watch is now more important than ever.

And as much I hate to, as shitty as it is, I have to leave the tantalizing little waitress alone in my bed while I tend to the craziness that is currently my company and family business.

Dammit, I’m only supposed to be here for a couple of weeks to clean up this financial mess.

But at this rate, it was looking like I was going to be sticking around New York City for a helluva lot longer than I expected.

SOPHIA

I wake up four hours later wanting the man I spent the night with more than ever.

More than wanting. I’m knee-deep in “needing.”

There’s something seriously wrong with the fact that he’s not kissing me, touching me, teasing me, tasting me, and before my eyes are even open in his gigantic California king bed, I know that I’m hating myself even more than I had last night.

What was I thinking not sleeping with him? When the chance was right