Flight Risk

FLIGHT RISK AMELIA WILDE CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 About the Author 1 JAMESON Hopes and dreams are bullshit. Here’s an example. As a kid, I used to hope that I’d grow up to be like my dad. He was a pillar of righteousness. We had a big house in a nice-as-hell neighborhood. He was obviously, openly in love with my mom. He loved us, too. And he always, always did the right thing. That’s the joke. The punch line is that his sons look just like him, including me. I grew up to be his image, but I’m nothing like him. That’s what my brothers are for. My middle brother, Gabriel—the human form perfected, a charmer to the core—waves his hand in front of my face. “Are you attending this meeting or what?” I bat his hand away. “I’m sitting right here, asshole.” Right here is a small mahogany meeting table in a room near my oldest brother Mason’s office. Plush carpeting. Comfortable furniture with silhouettes that are so timeless you know it cost a fortune. Early-June sun filters through outrageously expensive windows that Mason had installed building-wide at Phoenix and at his apartment building last year for some secret reason. That all tracks, because Phoenix Enterprises is a multibillion-dollar company. It’s the real estate company my brother clawed out of concrete and airtight contracts after our parents died when he was eighteen. The first few years afterward were hell. My brothers have found their way out, which is nice for them. Mason watches me, forehead creased with concern. “Something on your mind?” A crime scene. That’s what’s on my mind. The giant meeting-room windows show the Manhattan skyline, but I didn’t see the other buildings or the fluffy, innocent-looking clouds in the sky or the little airplane pulling a banner that says GOT INSURANCE? Instead: photos printed from a copy shop, their edges slipping together in my shaking hands. Smoking rubble and a half-melted office chair and a wedding ring glinting silver, surrounded by ash. I will not remember that in this meeting. I won’t have those thoughts. I just won’t. I flash Mason a grin to cover the oh-fuck sensation of being caught out. Since Gabriel almost got himself killed last fall, I’ve put a ridiculous amount of effort into playing the role of a man who has it together, both in our family and at Mason’s company. The slip-ups are happening more often. “I was waiting until you got around to the effusive praise you owe me.” Gabriel takes a sip of his Frappuccino, which is absolutely full of caramel—swirls all through the blended coffee and sprayed over the whipped cream. He peers at me over the rounded lid. “Did you do something praiseworthy?” “Yes he did, Gabriel.” Mason looks so satisfied, like he made this happen. He’s not wrong. He made this happen in lots of ways. “Yes, I did. The property I found in Brooklyn is going to make Mason a fortune.” I gesture at Gabriel to commence with the congratulations. He takes another sip of his drink and coughs like he has an ice chip in his throat. “It will not, and you know it. It’s a historical property. The restrictions alone are going to kill us.” The cough, followed by kill us, does something horrible to my blood pressure. It goes through the roof, pulse pounding at my temples. It’s all I can do to keep the self-satisfied grin on my face like the Brooklyn property means anything while I race through memories of a night I’m not thinking about. Not now. It does mean something. Gabriel’s right that repairs and restorations will put us in the red on the building for the next five years. It’ll turn a profit after that. In the meantime, it’s an asset in Mason’s public relations portfolio. My brothers can give me shit about choosing lost causes all they want. They both know Mason can afford to save some pieces of history from getting developed into oblivion. “—community development,” Mason’s saying. “That’s what I wanted to talk about today.” “What about community development?” I missed the beginning of his sentence. The mahogany table gleams between me and my brother, summer sun sparkling in his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?” “I’ve never been better.” Lie. A hilarious lie. “Good. Because I agree with you. You’ve proven yourself over the past six months, and it’s time you had an actual opportunity for leadership.” I point at my chest. Leadership? My current title is Senior Acquisitions Associate, which is a fancy name for me finding hidden gems all over the boroughs and interspersing them with what people think of as lost causes until Mason gets his hands on them. “You want me to be in charge of people?” Gabriel laughs. “Mason. Seriously. If you want that part of the company to get bigger, we can handle it.” Mason gazes at the ceiling. “Jameson can handle it. I’m confident in his abilities.” The dots connect forcibly, like a body hitting concrete. “Wait. Are you giving me a promotion?” “That’s literally what he just said,” sings Gabriel. Mason nods. “You’ve built Phoenix’s portfolio of legacy properties, Jameson. You’re too smart not to have the title and responsibility to match.” “We’re talking about acquisition and development, right?” “And big-picture management.” My older brother folds his arms casually over his chest and leans back in his chair. “You have the vision for these places. This way, you can have the staff and budget you need to take them through to active occupancy. Liaise with organizations. Find the people who are invested in the properties the way you’re invested.” Because I am always invested. Only not for the reasons Mason thinks. “In terms of