Page 22 of Quinlan

“Remember the first day of BLF Capital?” I test the waters, checking if Liam’s in the mood to talk.

Nothing.

I feel somewhat better regardless.

Our company. Ours.

We all share the burden of running our private equity company. That said, we all have different areas of responsibility, depending on our sets of expertise.

I’m in charge of the negotiations. Squeezing people until they’re bled dry. I’m also the bad guy who’ll threaten anyone who doesn’t fall in line. We’re the best at what we do, and that’s turning a failing company into a successful one. Those who think we’ll be silent shareholders and let them keep fucking up, are in for a rude awakening. By me.

Damien is the lawyer. He makes sure we haven’t missed a single detail. We have a legal department, but Damien has an eye like no other. A clandestine brain and a sharp tongue. No one puts one over us, thanks to him. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a sweet talker. He can get anyone to signanything.

Liam runs the research department. He’s constantly on the hunt for companies that are out on their luck. Hacks into their servers. Builds an offer based on their reports with his team, leveraging the information to our advantage.

My trust fund—the one my late grandparents had set up for me—started this. I poured every cent I had into BLF Capital. We share the profits equally between the three of us.

The three of us deserve it.

Many people have that dream of success. Of becoming rich.

Many of them fail.

Not us.

We’ve stayed driven like no other since day one. Revenge is a powerful fuel.

And it’s within our reach.

Unless Damien died and his murderer is reading his messages.

Highly unlikely. Damien’s alive, I’m sure of it. He’s up to something, and I have an idea what it is.

Except he should’ve talked to us first. Every second of our schedule is accounted for.

Flick. Snap. Flick. Snap.

Liam switches his position so his long legs are sprawled on the sofa. His eyes are focused on the Chicago River outside.

Other billionaires at the ages of thirty-four and thirty-two probably don’t have roommates. They don’t live together with their best friends.

We do. It’s more than a necessity. It’s a choice. I don’t love them in the romantic sense. That isn’t the case for us. But we’re each other’s family.

We’re brothers.

They won’t ever ask why I come home with bloodied knuckles. Won’t judge me when I lose my temper. Won’t complain that the fridge and pantry are overstocked.

They don’t think I’m damaged.

Will Quinlan? I’ve been wondering about that for years.

The woman in the pictures looked sweet. The girl she was while Damien stalked her sounded a little sad, a tad unhinged and compassionate to a fault.

She turned into a gorgeous woman. One neither of us were allowed to get close to. We’ve been good at keeping our distance.

But something about her photos. I couldn’t stop looking at her. Beautiful Quinlan with her stormy gray eyes and the heart-shaped tattoo on her cheek.

She’s been calling to me through her photos. A call I haven’t responded to. A call I’ve done nothing about.

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