Chapter 4: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 4

With a heavy exhale, I push open the door to my boardroom.

“Mr. Quinn.” Alfred Marek leaps up from his seat, narrowly missing spilling his water. “I’m glad we can sort this out face-to-face.”

Thirty minutes ago, I saw him at reception when I returned from lunch with Maria.

Paunchy short guy. Light-blue eyes, not dissimilar to mine. Something the Polish and Irish have in common. He’s the type of guy who wears a suit regardless of whether he works in a coal mine or an office.

With steel in his eyes, he holds out his hand for me to shake. I might have been fooled if I didn’t feel his clammy palm.

He’s flanked by two guys, one of who must be his son. The son, who looks mid-thirties like me, has his jaw set tight, ready for a fight the old-fashioned way.

“Call me Killian.” I remove my hand from his grasp.

Marek looks relieved. “Alfred.” The older man smiles at me. “And this is my son, Alfred Jr.”

Alfred Jr. mumbles a greeting.

Marek nods to the third guy farthest from me. “This is my lawyer, Mike Dempsey.”

Dempsey looks like someone they found from the local phone book, operating out of a car wash in Brooklyn.

I take my place at the head of the boardroom table and gesture for them to sit. “I trust my team has introduced themselves.” Sitting opposite the Marek family is Sarah, a senior lawyer, and a guy who looks fresh out of college.

“They have indeed,” Alfred Sr. says as the Mareks simultaneously sit. “I’ll admit, Killian, I’m surprised you agreed to the meeting. You’re a busy man. I’m sure we can come to a resolution, like adults, so we don’t take up too much of your time.”

I relax into my leather chair, nodding in agreement. “You have my full attention.”

He takes a sip of his water, then clears his throat. “Mr. Quinn… Killian.” His lips curl into a tense smile as he knots his fingers on the table. “Do you know the history of our restaurant?”

I offer a friendly smile. “I assume you’re going to enlighten me.”

“I don’t know how well you know our area in Brooklyn. Come out and visit us at the restaurant. You’ll get to see the wonderful, proud Polish community…”

I try not to lose patience but find my attention drifting out the window as he speaks. He’s doing himself no favors by giving me a history lesson about Brooklyn.

“So you see, the restaurant is where our community comes together. My father handed it over to me, and I ran it for fifty years to pass it down to my son and daughter.” He briefly looks with pride at his son before redirecting his attention back to me. “I want you to reconsider the development, Killian. Son. Think about—”

“Mr. Marek,” Sarah cuts in briskly. “Our contract has already been communicated to your lawyer.”

I lean back in my seat, letting out a frustrated grunt as I exhale. We should be finishing up the small details of this project by now.

“Please,” Alfred’s voice booms, but he fails to hide the slight rattle. “I’m talking business owner to business owner. Father to father. You have children too. Someday you’ll want to pass your business to them.” He pauses. “Her.”

He’s done his research. Except handing over my business would require my beautiful daughter Teagan to say something other than “I hate you” to me. Anything beyond that seems like a pipe dream these days.

“I’m sorry, Alfred. This isn’t personal, but the development is going ahead. It’s already underway.”

“We’re aware of that,” Alfred Jr. growls. “We can see the bulldozers from the restaurant window. The noise is driving our customers away.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Alfred Jr. hisses in response like the meathead I expected him to be. He slams his fist on the table, making the water glasses shake.

“Hold up, Son,” his father cuts in, leveling him with a stern look. He places a hand over his son’s before turning his attention back to me. “Killian. You’re putting me out of business with your bulldozers.”

“Which is why you should accept my generous offer.”

Senior blanches. “So… what? You’re going to ruin this community with a gaudy hotel and casino?”

“It’s a prime plot of land near JFK,” I point out calmly, drumming my fingers on the table with mild impatience. “Not a community center to drink tea in. Be sensible.”

“Sit down, son,” Senior snaps as Junior makes to stand. He grabs his son’s arm and forces him back down into his seat. “So that’s it? We have two options. Either sell our livelihood to you or watch you destroy it by building around us?”

“I would advise taking option one,” I respond crisply. “I was expecting to have a sensible conversation with you today.”

We’ve offered Marek a package that could give his family financial stability for life but he’s too blinded by pride to take it.

Jr. growls something in Polish.

“Mr. Quinn,” their lawyer pipes up from the corner, clutching papers that are probably props. Fucking useless. I forgot he was even in the room. “You leave us no option but to seek an injunction from the courts under the Nuisance Law.”

Feeling my phone vibrate in my pocket, I take it out. Connor. For a moment, the phone is the center of attention; a chance for the Mareks to regroup. Canceling Connor, I slide the phone back down on the table, out of arm’s reach of the moronic son in case he fancies himself as a vandal.

“The hotel is going ahead on that land. We have your accounts; my offer is much more than the restaurant is worth,” I remind them. “I was in a bidding war for the land with five other property developers. The others were willing to offer you half of what I did. See this as an opportunity, not a threat.”

“Real fucking saint you are, Quinn,” Alfred Jr. spits. I look in disgust at where droplets have landed on the table. “You sit in your glass box, thinking you’re better than us. You think you can forget your roots? Your family came from nothing.”

“Are you done?” I ask him coldly. “Because you’ve made life a whole lot more difficult for yourself.”

I tap on my phone to alert security.

“Our community won’t let this happen.” Alfred Jr. rises to his feet. “It’ll be burned to the ground with all your fucking high-rollers from the island in it. You don’t have support in Queens, and now you don’t have any in Brooklyn either.”

I regard him coolly. Nothing new there. I grew up in Queens. Killian Quinn Sr., from whom I inherited my genes, was a lowlife, according to every Irishman within a ten-mile radius. A man who would show up to a dead man’s send-off for the free food and then bed his widow. Unfortunately, his reputation extended to the wider family. Fortunately, he died before I hit my teens.

“Time’s up,” I say, my voice level. I slip my phone back into my pocket and stand, pushing my chair back as there’s a knock on the door. A security guard opens it, raising his brow at me. He’s danced this dance before. Two other guards linger behind him.

“Seek injunctions, protest, try to blow the place up. You won’t win against me, Alfred.” I address Sr. because Jr. is a fucking idiot. “I thought you were smarter than this. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting.”

Alfred Sr. rises to his feet to join his son. “I almost feel sorry for you, Quinn. You don’t understand what it means to be part of a community, do you?”

“After you.” I gesture with my palms for them to get out as the two security guards come between the Mareks and me.

I turn to Sarah and the paralegal kiddo sweating buckets, now on their feet and anxious to leave. “Sarah, inform the team that we’ll need to modify our construction phases since the Mareks’ refuse to negotiate.”

We’ll build around them.

“I don’t know why we expected anything different from a psychopath. Everyone in Queens knows what you did,” Jr. sneers from behind me.

Everyone freezes.

The words trickle under my skin like parasites.

I slowly pivot to face him.

His eyes spark with smug satisfaction, pleased that his parting jab provoked a reaction.

I raise my hand to stop the security guards from dragging him down the hall, not taking my eyes off Junior. “And what exactly is that?”

He stiffens, his bravado faltering even though he’s got the security guards between us.

“Leave it, Son,” his father warns quietly beside him.

Junior narrows his eyes and stands tall. “You’re the worst kind of scum. She was the mother of your kid.”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out,” I growl through clenched teeth, struggling to control the anger surging through me. I narrow my eyes, my knuckles white as I grip the edge of the table behind me.

At my signal, my security team escorts the Mareks away swiftly.

I watch as they disappear from view down the hallway.

I get no pleasure from knocking down his family or his restaurant. It’s just business. But he made this personal. Now I want to tear down his damn restaurant and make sure my casino is the only view he ever sees from his house.

Mandy, my PA, approaches from where she’s been watching. Perhaps I should be more concerned about how unfazed she is by the scene.

“Walk and talk, Mandy,” I say in as calm a voice as I can manage. I take the coffee from her and head toward my office.

She follows me in a slight jog as people scurry out of our way. “Your four o’clock is in boardroom two,” she begins, referencing her notepad. “Then we have a car waiting for you for your five-ten meeting across town. Oh, and the New York Times called. They want a quote from you about the Dante Carlo hotel group going into liquidation.”

I stop short in the hallway. “Why the fuck do they want a quote from me?”

Mandy looks at me strangely before responding. “Because you’re Killian Quinn.”

“Fine, get PR to put together a quote and run it past me. Cancel the five-ten. I want to be home when Teagan returns from school, since there’s no nanny this week.”

“But, Mr. Quinn—”

“No buts.”

She bites her lip and nods as we walk until we reach my office. “I booked dinner for your daughter’s birthday.” She glances at the pad again. “Oh, and I sent Mrs. Dalton’s daughter some flowers.”

“Good. Has she been moved to the new clinic yet?”

She nods, smiling. “She’s loving the VIP treatment. But Mrs. Dalton wants to stay with her in Boston for at least two months.”

I take a deep breath, then push open the door to my office.

I get it. I have a daughter, and I would do anything for her too. I signed off on the checks to move Mrs. Dalton’s daughter to the best clinic in the country, not paying any attention to the cost. It’s irrelevant.

But Mrs. Dalton’s absence fills me with trepidation more than anything has in years, and I’ve been shot at twice. She’s been with Teagan and me as my live-in nanny and domestic assistant for years. A sensible Irish woman in her early fifties whose children have all grown up. She has the integrity and discretion that I need for someone living with my daughter.

Since Teagan’s nearly thirteen and at school, she only needs someone in the evenings until I get home. I don’t care how grown-up Teagan thinks she is. My security team isn’t good company for teenage girls. This is my dire attempt to have a more motherly figure in her life.

But finding a suitable replacement has been a fucking nightmare.

My younger brother, Connor, swaggers toward me. “How come you’re the only one who comes back from your meetings and doesn’t look like they want to jump out of the window?”

“Thanks, Mandy.” I nod for her to leave, then turn to Connor. “Glad you were entertained.”

He props himself against the wall. “So the old man won’t sign?”

“They’ll sign eventually. Just a pity they’re wasting everyone’s time.”

“I don’t know why you bothered to talk with him.”

“What can I say? I’m a nice guy,” I reply dryly, taking a mouthful of coffee. I don’t tell him that the prick of a son taunted me over Harlow’s death. “Sometimes they feel better when they’ve been allowed to say their piece. I’d prefer they sign quietly.”

“If you want them to sign quietly, put someone charming in front of them.”

I stare at him, deadpan.

He chuckles as Marcus, our chief of staff, joins us, reeking of cigarette smoke. I might force him to quit.

Marcus’ brows shoot up as he takes in Connor. “You shaved your head.”

Connor chuckles. “Killian didn’t even notice.”

“Of course, I fucking noticed,” I snap. “I’ve got better things to do than massage Connor’s ego by telling him how much I love his new military hairstyle.”

Connor lets out a laugh and pushes himself off the wall. “Christ, he’s even grouchier than usual today. Good luck.” He slaps Marcus on the back before walking away.

“I do have some actual good news for you,” Marcus says. “I found Mrs. Dalton’s perfect replacement.”

My brow lifts. “Oh, yeah?”

“Thought a different strategy might work this time. I’m hoping someone so desperate won’t run away.”

“Let’s hope so,” I grunt. “Your current strategy is fucking abysmal.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “My job isn’t just to find a nanny for you, boss. The last one you made cry, and Teagan made the one before that burst into tears.”

I shoot him a dark stare. He’s lucky he’s worked for me for ten years.

“You can meet the new one on Sunday. You’ll like her; she’s Irish. She’ll be a great influence on Teagan. We’ve run the background checks. No drugs, illnesses, STDs. Scabies. No record of terrorism.” His grin widens. “Cleaner than an Irish nun.”

This sounds promising.

“Should I be concerned about your priority order?” I ask dryly. “Sounds like you’ve found me the Irish Mary Poppins.”

“I couldn’t have described her better myself. It’s like you’ve already met her.”

“Send me her résumé and vetting results.” I’m not comfortable with someone moving in so quickly, but I’ve got very few options. Mrs. Dalton’s absence was last minute. And my security team is prepared for any scenario—scabies, terrorism, or otherwise.

He pauses, swirling his coffee. “She’s younger than Mrs. Dalton.”

I give him a questioning look. “And?”

He shrugs. “And nothing. That’s it. I’m just giving you all the facts.”

I study him suspiciously.