Page 11 of The Devil of Downtown

I’ve been counting down the seconds until this moment all day.

I don’t belong in this world.

Sloane’s world.

So why does my chest sink when the elevator doors glide shut and he slips out of view?

Chapter three

Dane

A late-night downpour pounds the sidewalk as my driver, Kent, eases to a stop outside an unmarked building tucked into a narrow street in Tribeca. No signage, no line, nothing to suggest the debauchery inside. Only a small brass serpent curled around a ring.

“Wait here, I won’t be long,” I say as Kent opens the door, angling my head down to avoid the rain. My eyes flick to the iris scanner above the heavy black oak door, and with a quiet click, it flies open, absorbing me into the darkness.

There are just a few hours left until my flight to London. I’ve been on the go since five this morning, and my body feels every hour. Back-to-back meetings. Zurich calls. The Bexley takeover. I should be resting. Instead, I’m here. Because sometimes the information you need isn’t found in the light of day in polished boardrooms. It’s here that kingdoms rise and fall between the clink of crystal and men texting they're working 'late'.

The Serpent Club is like stepping into another world—a modern-day den of sin, with velvet booths, crystal decanters, and hidden corridors that lead to playrooms. The air thrums with low laughter and decadence, perfume and smoke threading through the room like a second skin. Power clings to the walls, old and stale, like a family heirloom nobody dares throw away. This is my father’s world—politicians, financiers, the kind of men who’ve never been told no. Membership is passed down like family jewels. A generational playground where old money heirs and Ivy League frat boys come to remind each other they still own the city. They come here to trade power, and to drown in whiskey and women.

Tonight, my currency is information.

Bexley’s heir, Hugo Bexley, is here. The timing couldn’t be more perfect—almost like fate dropped him out of the sky straight onto the chopping board. The rumors swirling around him are not pretty. A trust-fund cokehead with a penchant for hookers, not one iota of concern for the employees who have been trying to drag him into the digital age. That his father’s empire is teetering on the edge while he’s here in New York, high and sloppy, says everything you need to know.

I spot Julian already in our velvet booth, a woman draped on either side, tonight’s target cornered—greasing the pig before I go in for the slaughter. Julian pours me a whiskey, flashing me a conspiratorial wink as I slide into the booth.

“Perfect timing,” Julian drawls, his arm curled around a brunette with lips painted the color of sin. She runs her nails down his chest like she can’t decide if she wants to scratch or worship. “Our friend here was telling me how fucking expensive London has gotten.”

Hugo’s gone—slurring, pupils blown, hands all over the half-naked blonde grinding on his lap. But that’s fine. I’m not here for Hugo. I’m here for what he slips when he’s this far gone.He won’t remember this conversation tomorrow. He won’t even remember his own name if the coke’s as pure as it looks, the purest kind that only the Serpent provides. It doesn’t matter what your vice is—the Serpent only trades in the best.

Julian leans in, lowering his voice. “He’s spilling more than he should. A couple of shareholders are ready to jump ship. They don’t believe in him. Not anymore.”

That gets my attention. Shareholders turning means weakness. Weakness means leverage. If they’re already restless, London won’t be a negotiation—it’ll be a kill shot.

Julian never rushes. He watches Hugo and times his moment. He leans back, flicking his wrist and pulls a napkin out of his top pocket, sliding it to me under his palm.

“Shareholder heat map,” he murmurs, the sly grin never leaving his face. “Names you want. Two proxies wobble tonight. One trustee is pissed; he’s been shopping his block quietly. Another big holder has been fielding offers—he’s only holding because someone whispered a price. Whisper louder, and he sells.”

I open the napkin, eyes running down the hastily scrawled list before I look up. It’s the kind of paper that kills companies: a boiled-down board map with names, holdings, brief notes—who’s loyal, who’s wavering, who’s got a personal problem that makes them vulnerable.

Julian’s mouth quirks, eyes gleaming. “By the time you touch down in London, the funeral will be a mere formality. He practically gift-wrapped it.”

“Good work,” I murmur, pocketing the evidence. My attention drifts back to Hugo, whose head is now buried between the blonde’s tits, snorting his next line straight off her cleavage. He’s too busy destroying himself to notice I’m already sharpening the knife.

My fingers curl around my glass, the smoky burn of the whiskey grounding me. One crack in the armor is all it takes.

“There's another issue,” Julian says, swirling his whiskey before he takes a long pull. “Parliament’s sniffing. Bexley’s been lobbying hard in London. If they stir up noise about foreign ownership, it could stall you.”

I sit back, loosening my cuff. “Parliament won’t stop me.”

“You could ask Father, with his political connections to sp...”

“No,” I cut in, sharper than I intend. “I don’t want his help. I want nothing from him.”

Julian nods, like he expected that. “Then you’ll need another angle.” He sighs, cracking his knuckles like he always does when he’s frustrated. “Media, perhaps. Public perception. We control the story before they do.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. Parliament is a variable we can tip.”

“There’s something else I want to talk to you about,” Julian adds, a tinge of hesitation in his tone. “I’ve met someone. A contact who says they can unearth files about the accident. Things the police buried.”