Page 70 of All That Glitters

They’re lost in their worlds without a clue as to what kind of darkness hides around them.

Stanic has moved up in the world, the same as me—street thug to Hollywood mogul. The area he chose as his homebase marks his ascent.

What we do for power.

I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans as I walk.

I’m the same.

I pushed Empire into a part she didn’t really want to ensure my own bank account stayed flush. The thought is humbling, and I hide my wince.

There’s no one to greet me by the door, but the elevator doors swing open at my approach. I press the number for the top floor. It’s got to be the top, even without the signage to point me in the right direction. Only the best for Stanic Maxim and his cruel empire built on agony and blood.

The plane crash was for me.

Had I thought about it before?

The elevator lurches into motion. Of course I had. I’d gone over that day repeatedly in my head, the last-minute call from Sherry taking me into the office on business I couldn’t afford to ignore. The way Olivia had pouted, trying to get her way, calling me an addict to the job. The way Bennett had razed me and called me dull. The day-trip would have taken us to Lake Tahoe for a few hours of fun before heading back to Los Angeles.

It was supposed to be a break from the chaos.

I’d backed out and felt guilty for it. Will I ever forgive myself for what happened?

The elevator jerks to a stop, and the doors slide open, the room before me a study in modern design. The interior of the office is clean and contemporary, with sharp lines and a black and white color scheme.

“Marcus!” Stanic’s voice comes out of left field, a surprise even though I’m expected. “It’s damn good to see you. You are right on time. Come.” He rises from a couch, his suit blending in with the black fabric, his arms outstretched at his sides. “Speak to me.”

I suck in a breath and hold it in my lungs to the count of two before taking a step forward, over what feels like an invisible line in the sand. My choice. I have to remind myself. I’m the only one who brought me to this point again.

“I’d like to say it’s a pleasure, Stanic, but as you can tell, this turn of events is somewhat of a surprise.” I close the distance between us. but instead of going for a handshake, Stanic grabs me in a hug.

His massive arms swing around my shoulders and crush me to his barrel-sized chest. The familiar scent of his cologne burns the inside of my nostrils as I force myself to return the hug.

“What? So formal now?” He claps me hard with both hands. “It’s been too long.”

And much too short for my own good.

But I returned the hug because it is expected, and I took the offered seat beside Stanic on the couch as well.

He eyes me from top to bottom, his cheeks ruddier than the last time I’d seen him, much more silver sprinkled through the black strands of his hair. He’d put on a little weight and the buttons of his suit jacket strain against his girth, but the mafia king has always been a thick man. I remember looking at him in my youth and wondering if he’d ever broken a man’s neck with a single snap.

Probably too many for him to keep track of or remember.

“You look good,” he says with a nod of approval. “Although the jeans…could you not have dressed up for me, Marcus?”

He’s a good-natured parent with a prodigal son newly returned, and I’m about to puke in my fucking mouth.

“What would you like?” Stanic asks when I fail to answer his question. “Tea? No, you’ve always been a coffee drinker. I remember.” He barks out a loud laugh and slaps his knee.

He snaps his fingers, and nearly silent footfalls herald the arrival of one of his horde of assistants. A woman keeps her gaze on the ground, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, and drops a silver coffee service tray on the table in front of us. She leaves just as silently, and Stanic is the first to move, pouring pure black liquid into one of the two cups before he turns the handle in my direction.

“Here you are, son.”

I refuse to let him see the way the word impacts me, how it digs under my skin and lodges there like a tracking device, taking me back, back to the days where I had to hand over all control to someone else.

How much has really changed?

My reins went from this man’s pudgy, ring covered fingers to the delicate, slender digits of an eighteen-year-old woman.

---