The Onyx Room was quiet, save for the clinking of expensive ice in expensive glass. Dominic Valerius sat in his usual booth, looking satisfied. William was alive, yes, but the chaos meant the Croft stock was vulnerable.
Cynthia Sharpe sat across from him, checking her makeup in her compact. She was the Mercenary, always looking for the next payout.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen: *Arthur Sterling.*
She silenced the room with a raised hand and answered it on speaker. “Mr. Sterling. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Dominic stiffened. “Why is my father calling you?”
Arthur’s voice, cold and metallic, drifted from the phone. *”I need a VP of Communications, Ms. Sharpe. Someone ruthless. Someone who knows where the Croft bodies are buried. My son Julian has proven… soft. I need a general for the war I’m about to start.”*
“I’m listening,” Cynthia purred.
*”Triple your current rate. Plus a percentage of the acquisition when I swallow Croft Enterprises.”*
“Done,” Cynthia said instantly. “I’ll be in your office at nine.”
She hung up.
Dominic slammed his hand on the table. “Are you insane? You’re working for *him*? We had a deal, Cynthia! We were going to take them down together!”
Cynthia stood up, smoothing her red trench coat. She looked at Dominic with pity. He was emotional; she was business.
“We had an alliance of convenience, Dominic,” she said, picking up her purse. “But your father isn’t playing a game of revenge. He’s playing for keeps. And frankly?” She flashed a shark-like smile. “He pays better.”