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Chapter One
Magnus
Bushwick, Brooklyn. A mishmash of gentrification, eyesores and warehouses, and ghetto.
I lean back in the leather chair in my Battery Park office. It’s away from the flash and glitter of other parts of Manhattan, which suits me fine.
I don’t give a fuck about that. Just like I don’t give a fuck about the letter in front of me, hand delivered by Jenson, my father’s attorney. Talk about posthumous posturing from the old man.
Still…
I’ve been waiting for this envelope with its thick cream paper, my name handwritten in strong penmanship, ever since my brother Hudson got his letter. And then got his inheritance. The woman he married is pretty and unexpectedly perfect for him. But that life doesn’t interest me.
Fucking who I want to fuck, and when I want to, suits me down to the ground. And money. I like money. I have more than enough of that—my inheritance and the billions I’ve earned. However, my own fortune made by my hands and my very unerring ambition to rule the real estate development world in this cutthroat city is what pumps my blood and drives me. No tease from a dead man about trinkets supposedly lost to the past and legend will take me from my path.
I’m making my own fortune my way. I’m making my own mark on the landscape and my plans are big. There’s no room for a dead man’s last gasp for control from beyond the grave.
Look at what my brother needed to do.
Hudson had to find love, and he claims he found it with Scarlett, his bride. Jesus, they’ve only known each other a few months and I can’t think of anything worse than being shackled to some woman for the rest of your life. Or ever.
We were brought up on tales of our inheritance. Not the monetary one, but the legend of jewels that have been nothing more than rumor my entire life. And they can stay that way. Sinclair real estate, what the family money was built on, is just fine and it can keep being fine. I’ve shares, we all do, but I’m no lackey. I don’t jump when told to and I don’t give a shit about sparkling jewels or getting fucking married.
I have bigger, better fish to fry.
Like my Bushwick project.
Pushing the letter to one side, I stare at the plans in front of me.
One ugly block in Bushwick I’m buying for a steal.
It’s my biggest project, my most ambitious.
This baby is my real vision, what I’ve been working toward for years, and something new. Not only housing, but a whole living, breathing city of its own. A city within a city, if you will.
It’s going to put me on the map as the biggest developer on the Eastern seaboard. My billions mean nothing without the power, the clout. Without carving my own name into the skin of New York.
This one ugly block is key. The location is perfection. Far enough from Manhattan and the enclaves of affluent Brooklyn. The block is close to transportation, and once it blooms, the entire area which I’ve been buying up will have people clawing to get their hands on the surrounds as well as a piece of history in the making.
The whole area will change. And I’ll be behind it all.
My fortune will skyrocket. My name synonymous with the future of real estate development.
I’m taking the eyesore block and turning it into a luxury oasis of a city. A place with high end dwellings, offices, stores. Private parks that rise into the sky. Leisure centers and community spaces. Open air spots and closed areas for relaxation, community, play. It will be both new and familiar, and the type of place that will change the flesh of Brooklyn forever.
This is stage one. The most important. In the future that I’ve carefully orchestrated—a ten year ambitious plan—I have two others planned here, three more in Queens, and then I’ll be hitting the Bronx. All of them are designed to fit the landscapes of the areas, and all will change them. My vision will bring me more fortune and power than I ever thought I could have before I embarked on this path.
Beyond New York? That’s in my head, too.
But Bushwick…
This one block is going to be the flagship of my new empire.
Everything is ready to begin.
Only one thing stands in my way of buying out and driving out the riff raff.
One small thing.
