Page 2 of Gray Area

“We will be circulating if you need anything, sir,” the attendant says with a little bow as he leaves us.

Sir. Fuck. Who’d have thought I’d ever be called that. I am respected and not treated like a nobody or ignored. No, Declan Falco is not disregarded anymore. My, how things have changed.

Slade undoes his button of his tux jacket and takes a seat in a high-back chair next to me, taking one of the whiskey tumblers. He throws it back and swivels his head around. “Geez, they really went all out to make this a cozy meet and greet, huh?”

I scan the space like a predator tracking his prey, taking in all the overstuffed chairs and couches, crystal vases filled with flowers, and paintings on pedestals. “It looks like an auction house threw up in this fucking place,” I grind out, grabbing the whiskey in front of me and sipping it.

The whiskey burns so perfectly on the way down, and I feel my pleasure at knowing that this is Falco whiskey they are serving. Our own brand. Top shelf. Expensive. And all of it going into my pocket. They really do want our money.

“How long do we need to stay here?” I ask Slade as I look around the room with disinterest as it quickly fills with dressed-up rich assholes. It would seem I am the only one with reserved seating as others ebb and flow throughout the room.

“How about we stay until we eat the meal, big bro,” he suggests, trying to refrain from laughing at me. I glare at him, and he lets his smile shine through, shaking his head at me. “We’ve literally only been here for like three minutes, and we are sponsoring this event.”

“I’m bored,” I announce to Slade, grabbing another sip from my tumbler.

“We could schmooze,” he offers.

“I don’tschmooze,” I murmur, sipping on my glass of the best whiskey in the world.

“Falco, long time no see,” says a man with slicked-back silver hair, coming over and offering his hand. I take it out of habit but remain seated. Oscar Ramos doesn’t deserve the respect of me leaving my seat. He is a nasty man who has nasty hobbies. He’s an entitled trust-fund dick of a man, from a long line of restaurant owners. Old money pricks tend to have the worst morals. And Ramos is no exception.

“Ramos,” I acknowledge, “not nearly long enough.”

He laughs, but I’m not joking. He turns and greets Slade who gives him the same cold shoulder. You can tell a lot about a man’s reputation by the way Slade treats him. He is agive people the benefit of the doubtkind of guy. So if Slade doesn’t like you, you are most certainly scum.

“Excuse me, Mr. Falco,” a woman says, appearing at my side. “I’m Linda Shallow, the coordinator—”

“We are speaking,” Ramos hisses at the woman who cowers at his response.

The poor woman looks rattled. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she sputters.

“No, we’re done,” I say, standing to my full six-foot, four-inch height, Slade doing the same beside me. “Go,” I command Ramos, and turn to the woman, softening my expression. “Hello, Ms. Shallow. You put this evening together for the initiative?”

“I-I did,” she says, looking over her shoulder as Ramos stomps away.

“Don’t worry about him, Ms. Shallow,” Slade says, cutting into her view of Ramos retreating and smiling at her. “His dick is an innie.”

The poor woman, who looks like she should be home baking cookies and not among this many rich assholes, appears startled at Slade’s remark. But then a smile breaks over her face. “Thatexplainsa lot,” she says, dissolving into conspiratorial giggles with Slade.

Once she recovers from laughing, Ms. Shallow turns back to me. “I just wanted to thank you both and your company on behalf of the alliance for your help with this event. Securing your attendance brought in so many other donors,” she explains earnestly.

“It’s our pleasure,” I say honestly. “Please don’t hesitate to reach out should you require anything in the future.”

“Here is the card for my personal secretary,” Slade says, handing her a black business card. “If another event comes up, please reach out to him directly.”

Ms. Shallow’s eyes widen in appreciation. “Thank you so much,” she whispers. “May I get you anything—”

“We are perfect, Ms. Shallow,” I tell her. “Please enjoy your evening.”

Ms. Shallow offers us a final thanks and then departs. After that, Slade and I are flooded with people coming over to make the always intolerable small talk. As I mutter hellos, I text my finance director.

“What are you doing?” murmurs Slade, chastising me as I ignore the people vying for our attention. I love ignoring people who think they are important. I like them to know how it feels.

“Investing,” I retort, barely looking up from my phone. I just instructed my finance director to buy the majority share in Oscar Ramos’s restaurant empire. I’ll show that trust-fund prick what rudeness will get you.

I slip my phone away and look up to see if there is anyone around worth talking to, then I still. A feeling runs through me that I haven’t felt in nearly a decade. I turn to the door and suddenly can’t breathe. It’s as if lightning has struck me—like I am alive with energy but paralyzed in place all at the same time.

Because Vivian has just walked in.

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