Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) Read Free Page A

discuss this meeting. This is about greasing the skids. Understand?”
    “Completely,” I reply curtly, unbuttoning my jacket, and taking a seat.
    “We’ve all got our parts to play, Tuck.” The judge signals to the guard out in the hall and barks, “Jeff, no interruptions.”
    The guard bobs his head, hissing out a, “Yes, sir.” His words echo off the walls like shuffled papers.
    Only disturbed by the woman placing a cup of steaming espresso in front of me. She returns with a lemon and efficiently grazes the edge of a sharp blade over it. In military precision, she flicks a tiny curl of lemon next to my cup. The rind is bright yellow against the white of the porcelain saucer. A contrast to the gray walls, fluorescent fixtures, and cement floor. With a promise to return with food, she exits the room, shutting the door behind her.
    Santo reaches inside his jacket. He withdraws an envelope and a pair of reading glasses. “It’s time we figure out a way, we can all help each other. I’ve waited for this day, and Damiano , you’re ready to break free of the maze. Eh?”
    My eyebrows rise incrementally. Maze? More like a jump from the fire into a vat of boiling oil. How many times can a man die and in how many ways? I’m about to find out, but I merely say, “Agreed.”
    “And Vincenzo?”
    My muscles go rigid. I freeze. Then I consciously relax my face, running through a body cue checklist that takes two or three seconds, top. Now isn’t the moment to admit Vince is waiting outside. In case I decide to off my uncle, I lie, “He left for Montreal. It’s been a while and no word.”
    “Always was a bad nickel.” Santo’s cold stare holds mine as he unsheathes a folded document. If he means a bad penny , he’s one to talk.
    “When did you get in?” I ask to forestall further conversation relative to Vin.
    “I came right from the airport. Judge Bloomberg was kind enough to send his driver.” Santo smooths the papers with his palm before handing me a copy and the other to Judge Bloomberg.
    I scan the page, reading my name several times in the context of being a candidate in the upcoming senate race. A twist to the gestalt of our family history. What’s proposed is a stag hunt. My uncle presents a standard matrix with players, strategies, payoffs. Not far removed from the course I’ve devised, yet this detour delivers two targets simultaneously into the crosshairs.
    “You’ll be under the radar,” I say to my uncle.
    He peers over his reading glasses at me for a millisecond longer than necessary. “It serves us all. The judge will act as facilitator.”
    Does Bloomberg realize deals are signed in blood when it comes to The Saint? Any collective action is funneled back to Santo. I recalculate the steps on how to serve the revenge I’ve plotted while dealing with The Saint’s pretense that everyone has something to gain. We’re alike in how we both are playing a zero-sum game. Similar to poker. One pot. One winner. Not far-off from my original trajectory as long as I remember who I’m dealing with.
    “Is this a case of history repeating itself?” I have to ask.
    “Your father’s death was avenged. PanCorp won’t stand in your way.” He slides another sheet of paper across to me. “Our bond interests no longer intersect theirs. Let that go. You’re hungry. The timing is right.”
    He taps the top of the sheet, drawing my attention to the paper in question. It’s a fully conveyed deed of absolute sale.
    “Rearden?” I fight back the slice of rage consuming my vision. My hands shake as I pick up the property deed to the plantation in Buckhead once owned by my dad. It’s where we last lived together as a family before he was killed. Executed, I bitterly remind myself. I stare at the signature of Mick Silver’s henchmen. An Irish twat. He’s the head partner of a Fifth Avenue law firm cloaked in tailored threads, influence, and a Cambridge degree.
    My uncle smiles. “Paid in full. Of course,