Chapter Thirteen – The Shell Game[Part 1]
1123 Words
Good girls don’t wake up with hangovers from charity galas.
Ava wakes up with a Damian Kade problem.
No headache. No nausea. Just the lingering, electric ghost of his hand around hers and a black metal card burning a hole in her nightstand drawer.
She stares at the ceiling for a long minute before she moves.
Her phone is a graveyard of missed notifications.
Sixteen texts from Cass. Three from Riley. One from an unknown number she refuses to open yet.
She ignores all of them.
Shower. Hair. Concealer. The standard Moretti armor.
By the time she walks into the kitchen of the penthouse, the smell of espresso and expensive toast is already in the air. Her brothers are arguing over a game score. Vince is at the head of the table, suit jacket on, tie already knotted, scrolling through something on his tablet with the focus of a man planning a war.
“Morning,” Ava says.
Three heads glance up. Two nods. One narrows.
“You’re late,” Vince says.
“It’s eight-thirty,” she replies.
“And our world starts at seven,” he says. “Sit. We’re reviewing proposals before the noon board call.”
She takes a seat at the far end, next to Luca. A stack of leather-bound folders appears in front of her like magic. She flips the top one open, scanning project summaries.
Rezoning. Midtown. Waterfront.
The same types of lines, different blocks.
“Don’t be dramatic, Dad,” Marco says between mouthfuls of toast. “Most of the city doesn’t even wake up till nine.”
“Most of the city doesn’t own half of itself,” Vince says. “We’re not ‘most of the city.’”
Ava keeps her eyes on the pages, half-listening as Vince outlines the priorities for the week: a contentious council vote here, an acquisition there, a lawsuit to squash in the Bronx.
“And there’s this,” he adds, sliding a separate folder down the table toward her. “New inquiry for a joint venture on a heritage redevelopment. Some boutique firm out of London; they want our footprint, and we want their brand. Or so they claim.”
Ava catches the folder before it flips off the edge. The cover bears a simple logo she’s never seen—an abstracted crown over clean serif text.
**Crownline Heritage Group.**
“Why me?” she asks, flipping it open.
“Because their proposal is full of design language and sustainability jargon,” Vince says. “Half the board’s eyes crossed before they hit page two. You speak that nonsense. Tell me if it’s worth keeping them at the table.”
She scans the executive summary.
“Preserving historic facades while integrating modern mixed-use functionality… community-inclusive public spaces… partnerships with local nonprofits…” She looks up. “Did someone feed my Pinterest board into an AI and send it to you?”
Luca snorts. Vince’s mouth tightens.
“This is business,” he says. “Not your social media activism. Look past the buzzwords. Follow the money.”
“I am,” she says, flipping to the financials.
Projected ROI. Expected capital contributions. Risk distribution.
She sees what Vince means. For all the pretty phrasing, Crownline wants a lot of control for not a lot of share.
“They’re ambitious,” she says. “And a little arrogant. But they might be real. Or very good at pretending.”
“Everyone in this town is good at pretending,” Vince says. “Which is why we don’t commit until we know exactly who we’re shaking hands with.”
He taps the folder.
“You’ll vet them,” he says. “Take a meeting. Alone. If they pass your little moral stress tests, we’ll talk real numbers.”
She blinks. “You want me to take point?”
“You’re always whining about wanting ‘responsibility,’” he says. “Here. You get to decide whether or not I waste my time with these people. Feel powerful.”
It’s a trap flavored like a compliment.
She doesn’t care.
“I’ll handle it,” she says.
“Today,” he adds. “They requested something this week. I don’t reward impatience, but I do respect speed.”
“I’ll make contact after breakfast,” she replies.
“Good.” Vince returns to his tablet. The conversation is over.
Her brothers shift back into sports and gossip. Leo appears silently in the doorway, dark suit crisp, eyes on the room like always.
He catches Ava’s gaze for half a second. There’s a question there.
She looks away first.
After breakfast, she retreats to her suite with the Crownline folder, kicks off her heels, and drops onto the window seat. Queens gleams hazy in the distance, Cass’s world flickering behind some of those windows.
She pulls out her tablet and scans the contact page.
**Crownline Heritage Group**
Primary North American Liaison: Samuel Cross**
Contact: scross@crownlinehg.com
Phone: +1-212-555-…
She frowns.
“Cross,” she murmurs.
Old crew names from Cass’s late-night info dumps drift through her mind. Cross. Kade. Moretti. Old blood in different fonts.
She hits the intercom.
“Cass?” she says.
Static. Then: “If this is a butt-dial, I’m sending a virus to your smart fridge.”
Ava’s lips twitch. “It’s not a butt-dial.”
“Then it’s a crisis,” Cass says. “You never call just to chat.”
“I see how it is,” Ava says. “You available to peek at something for me?”
“Always. What are we hacking today, princess?”
She hesitates.
“This might be… less illegal,” Ava says. “At first.”
“Boring,” Cass says. “Send it.”
Ava snaps a photo of the Crownline logo and the contact page and sends it through their encrypted channel.
“Crownline Heritage,” Cass reads. “Ugh. Sounds like a whiskey your father drinks while evicting widows.”
“Vince wants me to vet them,” Ava says. “They’re asking for a joint redevelopment venture. Heritage preservation, green space, the works. On paper, they sound like me if I could print myself onto letterhead.”
“So obviously, they’re hiding something horrific,” Cass says. “Give me a minute.”
Keys clatter on the other end.
Ava flips through the glossy pages while she waits. Crownline’s sample projects are remote, artsy, and European. Restored castles turned boutique hotels. Old train stations were reborn as co-working hubs. The financial guts, though, are opaque. Shells inside shells.
“Okay,” Cass says. “Here’s the thing. Crownline is technically real. UK registration, small but legit portfolio, no screaming red flags.”
“Technically,” Ava repeats.
- Writer
