Page 1 of King of Manhattan

Chapter 1

Vince

I fucking hate these things.

The champagne glass in my hand might as well be filled with poison for all the enjoyment it's bringing me. Around me, New York's elite mill about in their designer suits and glittering gowns, air-kissing and glad-handing like their lives depend on it. In a way, I suppose they do. One wrong move, one missed connection, and they could find themselves tumbling down the social ladder they've worked so hard to climb.

Me? I'm already at the top. And I didn't get here by kissing ass.

"Mr. Russo, so glad you could make it," a syrupy voice intrudes on my thoughts. I turn to find Miranda Holbrook, the event's organizer, beaming up at me with a smile as fake as her sincerity. "Your generosity is, as always, much appreciated."

I nod, not bothering with a smile of my own. "Ms. Holbrook."

She prattles on about the charity's achievements this year, but I tune her out. My eyes scan the room, cataloging faces, noting who's talking to whom. In my world, information is power, and you never know when a casual observation might come in handy.

That's when I see her.

She stands out like a flame in a sea of ice, all passion and fire amidst the cool detachment of the socialites. Honey blonde hair is pulled back into an elegant updo, but a few strands have escaped, framing a face that's flushed with emotion. Her blue eyes flash as she argues with some pompous-looking asshole in a poorly fitted tux. Her full lips are open slightly, ready to argue with the man. I start making my way closer to them.

"—simply can't justify that kind of funding without more concrete results," the man is saying, his tone condescending.

The girl squares her shoulders. Even from across the room, I can see the steel in her spine. "Mr. Davenport, with all due respect, you can't put a price tag on justice. Every case we win, every family we help—"

"Yes, yes," Davenport waves a dismissive hand. "Very noble. But nobility doesn't pay the bills, my dear. Perhaps if you focused on more... lucrative endeavors?"

I expect her to back down. That's what people do when they're put in their place by someone with more money, more power. But this woman surprises me.

She steps closer to Davenport, her voice low but intense. "Our 'endeavors', Mr. Davenport, have kept families in their homes, children with their parents, and innocent people out of prison. If you can't see the value in that, then perhaps we don't need your money after all."

Well, fuck me. This girl's got balls.

I find myself moving towards them before I even realize what I'm doing. Davenport's face has turned an interesting shade of puce, and he looks ready to explode.

"Everything alright here?" I ask, stepping smoothly into their space.

Davenport's eyes widen as he recognizes me. "Mr. Russo! I... we were just..."

"Having a spirited debate about the merits of pro bono work, it seems," I finish for him, my tone mild but my eyes hard. "Fascinating topic."

The young woman turns to me, surprise flickering across her gorgeous features before she schools them into polite interest. "And you are?"

For a moment, I'm thrown. It's been a long time since I've met anyone in this city who doesn't know exactly who I am. It's…refreshing.

"Vincent Russo," I say, extending my hand. "And you are... ?"

"Emily Bennett," she replies, her small hand fitting perfectly into mine. Her grip is firm, confident. "I don't believe we've met, Mr. Russo."

"Please, call me Vince," I say, surprising myself. I never invite that kind of familiarity, especially not from strangers. But something about this girl – Emily – makes me want to hear my name on her lips. And that’s not all I’d like from her lips.

Davenport clears his throat, clearly unhappy about being ignored. "Mr. Russo, I'm sure you have better things to do than listen to Ms. Bennett's pie-in-the-sky ideas about—"

"Actually," I cut him off, not bothering to look his way, "I find Ms. Bennett's ideas intriguing. Perhaps you could tell me more about your work, Emily?"

Her eyes narrow slightly, clearly trying to figure out my angle. Smart girl. "Of course," she says slowly. "Though I wouldn't want to bore you with the details of legal aid and social justice."

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. "Try me. I have a… particular interest in the law."

A flash of something – recognition? wariness? – crosses her face, but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Well, in that case," she says, a challenge in her voice, "why don't we start with the systemic issues in our criminal justice system and work our way up from there?"

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