Page 79 of Jesse

Keep out.

Two valets appear immediately when I pull the Huracán up to the west side of the building. One opens my door while the other offers me his hand and says, “Welcome to the Bossy, Ms. Dumas. May I help you out of your car?”

“Sure,” I say, taking his hand and stepping out of the low sports car.

“This way, please. Mr. Boston is waiting for you over there.”

I walk around the car and stand at the entrance carved out by the wall of water spouts and look down the marked stone path that leads to the front doors to find, not Jesse, but Zach Boston, waiting patiently about halfway between me and the building. Illuminated by spotlights aimed at that particular spot on which he stands. His hands clasped in front of him. Head up and back straight. Wearing a dark gray suit and silver sunglasses.

I glance up at the building. It’s dark out, so the top five floors are also lit up with spotlights and I swear, they are positioned just so, so that the gargoyles cast shadows upward like demons in a horror movie.

Dramatic, right?

These Boston Boys really know how to make an impression.

But why am I surprised?

My first date with Jesse Boston was thirteen years ago and he’s been haunting me ever since.

I take a deep breath and walk forward. The valet does not follow me, so I approach Zach Boston alone with more than a little bit of apprehension.

This is what I wanted though, right?

Yes, I tell myself. This is what I’ve always wanted.

Zach waits until I am three paces away before he greets me. “Ms. Dumas,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m Zach, Jesse’s assistant. Would you like to come with me?”

I shake his hand politely then say, “Yes, thank you.”

We walk forward towards the building and there’s a cool breeze in the courtyard that seemed to be missing from the rest of the city. A chill runs up my body and I rationalize it by coming up with all kinds of semi-scientific explanations due to the water wall, and the slight mist, and the night air.

But I’m not sure any of that makes as much sense as the real reason I’m chilled.

They are a little bit scary, aren’t they? These Boston Boys.

So secretive, so elusive, so rich and powerful.

And dirty, I remind myself.

They’re dirty.

But I push those thoughts away when Zach and I pass through the automatic doors and into the lobby.

It’s an austere space. No chairs. Not a single one. No reception desk. Just a line of metal detectors—not operational at the moment, since it’s Sunday night—and just past those there are dozens of electronic turnstiles that must be activated with a badge before you’re allowed to pass through.

There’s no security. At least, that’s what I think until I look up and spy the cameras.

Zach and I bypass the turnstiles, instead walking through two glass double doors under a large steel archway, which also requires an electronic signature to activate.

These people take their security seriously.

“It’s all very dramatic,” Zach says, chuckling a little bit to put me at ease. “But the companies who rent space here in the Bossy all require it. The private elevator is this way.”

He waves a hand to a little wing of sorts and I go first, stopping in the middle of a bank of elevators. There’s four. Which seems excessive when the private floors only house three brothers and an assistant.

But what did I really expect?

This is who they are.