Page 247 of Enemies

Now I’m negotiating to ensure one of my more profitable venues—one of a handful of which I don’t own outright—continues.

There’s no way I’m giving it up.

I survey the executive at the property management company. He might be responsible for billions in real estate, but so am I.

“What if I tell you Ivanov won’t be in any business in a few months?”

“Forgive me if that’s hard to believe.”

The windows in the historic building let in filtered light, and I shift out of my chair to cross to one, getting a view of the street below and the park on the far side.

“You don’t have to believe it, but know this—it’s easy for you to review paperwork and file deals and cut checks, but when you sign on to work with Ivanov, he’s not interested in those things. He’s a gravedigger.”

“And he’ll fall into one of his own graves by mistake?”

“No. The next one he digs could be yours.”

Whatever he sees on my face has him blanching.

“Tell him,” I start, “that you were mistaken about the dates on Echo’s contract. The venue is no longer available. For your inconvenience, I’ll ensure your son’s tuition is covered at Eton next year.”

He extends a hand and we shake.

I leave the boardroom grimly satisfied.

On impulse, I pick up my phone and leave a voicemail as I head down the hall.

“You can’t beat me. Whatever you do, I will watch you. And cover you. I won’t forget what you did.”

I click off and take the three flights of stairs down to the main level.

It feels good to stretch my legs after a day of travel. The past week has been hell, but I’m on my way back to Ibiza, where I can hold Raegan in my arms.

The limo is waiting at the curb to take me to the airport. But before I shift inside, I pull up.

The rear tire is flat.

I knock on the driver’s window and motion him over.

He rounds to my side, hand curling at his hip when he sees the damage.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t know what could’ve happened.”

There’s a slice as long as my thumb clean through the rubber. “I do.”

It’s twilight, and I need to get on a plane for Spain, but while the driver promises to call me another car, I’m already tuned out.

Up the block, another black car is idling.

The back window is shaded, so I stare in the front for a second. Two.

I cross to the park on the other side of the street, sinking onto a stone bench with a view of pigeons playing in a fountain.

Less than a minute later, a man is out of the back and approaching me.

“I trust you heard I got the lease back,” I say as he shifts onto the other end of the bench.

Mischa’s mouth twists. “Never like to deal with landlords. Better to own property. Your parents always said that.”

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