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Prologue

PRESENT DAY

DECLAN

Ifucking hate fundraising parties. I fucking hate all parties to be honest; being social has never really been my thing. But fundraising parties, where you get invited to buy an overpriced ticket to an event, only to be hit up for cash, and knowing the whole time you are only there because they want to hit you up for cash? Well, that shit just chaps my ass.

But as fucking annoying as the dog and pony show is, it is a true tell of the position of power I am in now. I get invited to high-end events like this one because I am rich, absolutely filthy rich. And when I am seen there I am recognized as a legitimatebusinessman. Which is what I have worked hard to achieve and is about ninety percent true. The other ten percent? Well, that is questionable when it comes to the legitimate front, but I have been around other “legitimate” businesses long enough to know that my ten percent questionable business is far less than those other businesses could claim. Everyone likes to paint gangsters and drug dealers in a shade of disgusting practices. But their commitment and follow-through is sometimes more ethical and morally sound than some household-name big businesses.

But I digress.

My family and I started our philanthropic efforts when the money started rolling in. We invested in causes we felt were important. And we quickly found out the more dollars and foundations we gave to, the more seriously Falco Enterprises, our family business, was taken. Now we are\ invited in thehopesthat we will donate. And so while everyone else is having to pay thousands for these events, we are gifted tickets to them. If Falco Enterprises gives, others follow.

The Falco family is now on top. This is what my father envisioned for us. What he started, and what my brothers and I have gone through hell and back to see through for him.

But I am fucking miserable.

As my chauffeured SUV pulls up to the red-carpeted entrance of the Marquis hotel, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, readying myself for boring small talk and fake laughter from all the stuffy fucks at this fucking event.

“Jesus Christ, Dec, could you look at least a little happy to be going to this thing?” my brother Slade asks me. He is my plus-one for the evening’s festivities. Unlike me, Slade excels at small talk and bullshitting, and his fake laugh sounds genuine. Who knows, maybe it is. Slade for sure enjoys these things more than I do.

“I don’t understand why you are so happy to come to these things,” I sneer at him in irritation. He’d interrupted my cooldown, and I needed that shit to get in the right frame of mind. A frame of mind that would keep me from rolling my eyes all night.

“What’s to hate?” Slade asks, raising his hand and counting off each one of his fingers. “The food is incredible and free, the booze flows free, and there are horny upper-crust housewives everywhere.”

“I’d hardly call the food free when we’ve sponsored the event,” I remind him, watching our guys come around to open our door.

“It’s a tax write-off,” Slade reminds me, “and it’s good for business to be seen at these.”

“What is this one for again?”

“This one’s for the No Child Goes Hungry task force the government started last year.”

“Is this the one that Ms. Shallow heads up?” I ask, trying to place the name.

“The same,” Slade confirms. “Lots of political players will be here, and if they see us here and giving, they are going to want you and Falco Enterprises on their side.”

I nod, knowing that Slade is right about all of it. Slade handles our PR, and he does a damn good job at it. As well as the other background things he does that the public isn’t privy to. But when it comes to PR, I know that if he says it is a good bet, we lay down the money.

Once the car door is opened, flash bulbs go off and I slide from the car. I have a resting bitch face the camera loves to hate, or so Slade has told me. The photographers call out asking for smiles, and I just ignore them. I haven’t given them a smile in the last five years I have been in the spotlight, so I’m not sure why they think continuing to call that out to me would work. I also knowit is just a game to them to try and irk me, and I try to give them no satisfaction in showing them it works.

Slade, however, is a different beast. His megawatt smile makes the cameras go off rapid fire. He gives them a wave and poses for them as I make my way inside.

“How about a shot of the two of you?” one of the paparazzi calls as I am about to take the steps up into the hotel.

“Yeah, both brothers!”

“Dec! Duty calls!” Slade calls to me, and I freeze but then go to his side.

He’d told me before that me being elusive to the cameras only made them hungrier for a shot of me. Made them do things that totally piss me off and put others in dangerous situations. Of all those things to consider, standing for a stupid picture is easier.

I give them approximately fifteen seconds of my time before I turn and go inside with my security. The men around me look like fancy security guards. Truth is they are criminals, ex-cons of all different sorts. They are cold and calculating, knowing when their skills and talents are needed. We just dress them up in nice suits. They are felons and other sinners of the underworld. Those had been their career choices, but now they excel at their performance. Axel, another one of my brothers, runs our security division, and he personally trains the thugs turned security.

I walk inside the ornately designed foyer and am greeted by a tuxedoed man with an earpiece. “Mr. Falco! Come right this way. I have your cocktail-hour area ready and set as you requested.”

I raise my eyebrows at Slade and he gives me a knowing smile. Knowing how much I hate these events, he tries to make me happy where he can, and having my own space is a good start.

The tuxedoed man leads us to a corner spot with a brown leather couch. The entire room has been set up like a really fancy fucking Ikea, couches and pillows everywhere. I sit on the couch,and instantly a tray of whiskey is brought and placed on the table before me.

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