“You’re evil but genius.” I handed his phone back, still laughing. “You’re an evil genius.”
“Thank you. I’ve always aspired to be both those things. Evildoers have way more fun, and geniuses are, well, geniuses.” Xavier pocketed his phone. “To be fair, I would’ve donated to those causes anyway. The fact my father would’ve disapproved of ninety percent of them is the cherry on top.”
I lifted my half eaten cupcake. “To revenge.”
“To revenge.” He tapped his chocolate against my lemon raspberry. He chewed and swallowed before adding, “Don’t get me wrong though. I’m definitely keeping some of the money. I like my cars and five-star hotels.”
“You mean you like trashing five-star hotels.”
Xavier pointedly ignored my allusion to his birthday weekend in Miami. “But I don’t need all of it. It’s more than any reasonable person could spend in a lifetime.” His expression turned pensive. “Once I get the club off the ground, I’ll make my own money, and I won’t have to rely on his. It’ll be a clean break, once and for all.”
He didn’t mention Eduardo’s theory about the will’s loophole, and I didn’t bring it up.
“You’ll succeed,” I said simply.
Xavier’s answering smile was pure warmth, and later that night, when we lay sweaty and sated in each other’s arms, I still felt the brush of it against my skin.
For the first time since The Fish died, I fell into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 37
Xavier
Bad luck comes in threes.
I’d been exposed to that superstition since I was a child, but no one ever defined the time period for when those three bad things happened. It could be a day, a week, a month or, in my case, three months.
My father’s death and new inheritance clause in October. Perry exposing our outing with Pen in November.
That was two, but the relatively smooth period after the blog exposé lulled me into a false sense of complacency. The issue with Pen and Rhea still hung over our heads, but at least Pen was in the city for the foreseeable future and Rhea was taken care of until she found a new job.
After Perry’s social media takedowns and the unspoken but significant shift in my relationship with Sloane—namely, the realization that I loved her but couldn’t tell her lest I send her running for the hills—life resumed its normal pace. That was to say, it was batshit busy.
Despite the upcoming holidays, work on the club was in full swing. I’d hired a construction crew, plumbers, electricians, and everyone else I’d need to get it up to speed before Farrah could start on the actual design, and I was already knee-deep in grand opening plans by the time late December arrived.
We were making good progress on the club, but it wasn’t enough. The clock ticked down toward my thirtieth birthday, and every passing day amplified my anxiety. Whenever I thought about my endless to-do list, my breath ran short and a tidal wave of overwhelm crashed over me.
However, I kept all that to myself as I took Vuk and Willow on a tour of the vault.
“We’re preserving the original floors and windows, but we’re turning the teller enclosures into bottle displays,” I said. “The bathrooms will be where the private counting rooms are, and safe-deposit boxes will be painted over so they form an accent wall.”
Vuk listened, his face impassive. Instead of the designer suits favored by most CEOs, he wore a simple black shirt and pants. Beside him, his assistant took copious notes on a clipboard.
Willow was a fortysomething woman with bright coppery hair and a no-nonsense attitude. Either she could read minds or she’d worked for Vuk long enough to read his mind because she asked all the questions he would’ve asked had he, well, actually talked.
“When’s the construction going to be finished?” she asked.
Since it was an active construction site, all three of us wore personal protective equipment, but I could picture her eagle eyes drilling into every detail behind her safety glasses.
“End of the month,” I said. “Farrah’s already sourcing most of the furniture and materials we need so we can hit the ground running as soon as this is done.”
I swept my arm around the vault. Workers bustled back and forth, hammering nails, installing wiring, and shouting to one another over the whir of drills and saws.
Having so many contractors here at the same time wasn’t ideal. It increased the risk of accidents, but given the ticking clock, I had no choice. I needed the basics in place before the New Year so we could focus on the design. That took the most time, and I wasn’t even counting other things I had to do like hiring and marketing.
Vuk was a silent partner. His primary contributions were his name and money; the rest was up to me to figure out.
I tamped down a familiar swell of panic and answered the rest of Willow’s questions as best I could. I wasn’t an expert on the nuts and bolts of construction, but I knew enough to satisfy her curiosity for now.
“Hey, boss.” Ronnie, the lead electrician, approached me halfway through my tour. He was a short, stocky man with eyes the color of old pennies and a face like a rock, but he was the best in the business. “Can I talk to you for a sec? It’s important.”
Shit. That tone of voice didn’t bode well for my blood pressure. While Vuk and Willow examined the teller enclosures, I followed Ronnie to the back of the club, where a mess of wires crisscrossed in some sort of nightmarish Gordian knot.
“We’ve got a small problem,” he said. “This wiring hasn’t been updated in decades. The situation isn’t dire—you’ve probably got a year or so left before a rewire is no longer optional—but I figured you might want to get this done before you open.”
“What’s the catch?” An update was simple enough. Ronnie wouldn’t have called me over unless there was something else.
“Can’t get it done before the New Year” he said. “A full rewire of this scale will take at least ten days, and that’s not counting the necessary finishing decoration works.”
There were fourteen days left in the year. Ronnie went on holiday starting Wednesday. I opened my mouth, but he shook his head before I uttered a single word.
“Sorry, boss, no can do. My wife has been planning our Christmas trip since last Christmas. If I cancel or postpone, she’ll cut off my balls, and I’m not being figurative. No amount of money is worth my balls.”
“It’s a matter of timing. I’ll cover all the expenses for your trip if you take it after the New Year.”
Ronnie grimaced. “She’ll cut off one ball for even suggesting that. Christmas is her thing.”
