Chapter 119

Chapter 119
Rhett's POV

I stood outside Boston's most exclusive restaurant, The Bristol Lounge, watching the valet parking attendants scramble with Bentleys and Rolls-Royces. The entire place had been booked for a private event—a charitable fundraiser, if you believed the press release. I knew better.

From inside the VIP room, I could hear the boisterous laughter of men congratulating themselves on their generosity. The voice of Thomas Smith, head of Hope Heaven Charity, carried above the others.

"Gentlemen, today is a momentous occasion! With your contributions, the underprivileged will receive better medical care than ever before!"

I smirked. What he really meant was: Let's celebrate Rhett Hayes' death. The bastard thought I'd died in that "accident" on the Mass Pike yesterday. How disappointing for him that I was very much alive.

"We're just following your and Mr. Curtis' lead," another voice chimed in. "Our donations are modest compared to your vision."

"Indeed, Mr. Smith is Boston's most visionary philanthropist," someone else added with the synthetic enthusiasm of ass-kissers everywhere. "And you, as his right-hand man, deserve credit for making Hope Heaven such a success."

"I merely follow Mr. Curtis' example," Thomas replied with false humility. "He sends his regrets that business in New York prevented him from joining us tonight."

That was my cue. I nodded to Anthony, who pushed the door open, and I stepped into the room.

"Quite the extravagant setup, Smith," I drawled, tapping ash from my cigarette. "You've rented the entire restaurant. Makes it hard for a man to find dinner anywhere else in Back Bay tonight."

Thomas froze mid-toast, his champagne glass suspended in mid-air. The blood drained from his face as he stared at me like he'd seen a ghost—which, from his perspective, he had.

I wore all black: shirt, tie, suit. Classic and appropriate, considering I was here to attend someone's funeral. His.

"Mr. Hayes," he stammered after recovering his composure. "What a... surprise. I hadn't expected to see you here."

"No surprise at all." I moved unhurriedly to the head of the table, claiming the chair he hastily vacated. My fingers drummed lazily against the pristine tablecloth. "I specifically wanted to have dinner with you, Thomas."

The dozen or so Boston businessmen around the table looked between us, sensing tension but uncertain of its source. They were nobodies—hedge fund managers and real estate developers who fancied themselves players in a game they barely understood.

One particularly clueless individual thrust his business card toward me. "Mr. Hayes, I'm Warren Kline from Prosperity Properties. Perhaps we could—"

Jack, one of my security detail, stepped forward, blocking the man's approach. I surveyed the room with detached amusement.

"Gentlemen," I said, my voice soft but carrying clearly, "tonight's dinner is a private matter between Mr. Smith and myself."

They understood the dismissal. With muttered excuses and awkward smiles, they filed out, leaving Thomas and me alone in the cavernous private dining room.

The door closed with a soft click.

I tapped my fingers rhythmically against the table, watching Thomas sweat. My cigarette burned slowly between my fingers, smoke curling upward in the silence.

"Thomas," I finally said, exhaling a perfect smoke ring, "don't you think you're being a bit stingy? Is my life really only worth one million dollars? I'm insulted by such a lowball figure."

He flinched visibly, confirming what I already knew. Before he could respond, the door opened again, and a tall man in dark clothes and a baseball cap entered. His eyes were cold, professional.

He looked directly at Thomas's horrified face and smiled thinly. "Sorry, Mr. Smith. Someone offered a better price."

The atmosphere thickened with tension.

With his cover blown, Thomas dropped the pretense. He straightened in his chair, his expression hardening.

"What do you want, Hayes?" he asked bluntly.

I took a final drag of my cigarette before dropping it into Thomas's champagne glass. It hissed as it extinguished, tendrils of smoke rising from the bubbling liquid.

"I'll ask you three questions," I said, tilting my head slightly. "Think carefully before answering."

Jack placed a phone in front of Thomas. On the screen, a video feed showed a dark basement. A woman in her thirties sat on the concrete floor, clutching a terrified six-year-old girl. Both were crying, their faces streaked with tears.

Two meters away was a large steel cage containing two massive Dobermans. The dogs stared hungrily at the mother and daughter, massive jaws open, tongues lolling between razor-sharp teeth.

"Daddy! Help us!" the little girl screamed.

"Thomas! Thomas, where are you?" the woman sobbed, clutching her daughter tighter.

Thomas's face contorted with rage and fear. His eyes, fixed on the screen, widened in horror.

"How did you find them?" he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper.

I smiled lazily. "It took considerable effort to discover your pretty young wife and daughter hidden away in that charming little house in Vermont. Your third wife, isn't she? Much younger. Must be quite special for you to keep them so carefully tucked away."

I tapped the screen casually. "Three questions, Thomas. Answer honestly, and they walk away unharmed. First: Did you have David Webb killed?"

Thomas stared at the screen, his face ashen. "Yes," he admitted through clenched teeth. "I hired someone to kill him. After he delivered your location to me, I couldn't risk him talking."

I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Then the incident six years ago—was that your doing as well?"

Thomas's eyes snapped to my face, searching for something. Whatever he saw made him laugh bitterly.

"So the playboy of Boston has been investigating daddy's death all these years. Not as careless as you seemed."

I waited silently, my expression unchanged.

"Yes," he confirmed, his voice steady now. "Kenneth Hayes' death wasn't an accident. I arranged it."

I swirled the whiskey in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light, saying nothing.

"Hayes Enterprises was a tempting target," he continued. "David Webb had been with your father for years and earned his complete trust. I used Webb to embezzle significant amounts from your family's accounts. The fool couldn't keep it quiet, and your father discovered the discrepancies."

He smirked. "Kenneth was surprisingly merciful—he simply fired Webb instead of pressing charges. I couldn't risk Webb talking or your father tracing things back to me, so I lured Kenneth to that warehouse and set it ablaze."

Thomas leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with remembered satisfaction. "I wasn't confident the fire would kill him, so I had my man put a bullet in him too. He was tough—still breathing when they pulled him out, but far too gone to identify anyone."

"I paid Webb handsomely to disappear to some backwater town. If the police ever got close, all trails would lead to Webb, the disgruntled ex-employee who fled after committing murder."

He smiled coldly. "Those incompetent detectives never figured it out. The great Kenneth Hayes' death remained just a tragic accident."

His gaze hardened as it settled on me. "Until his persistent son kept digging."

"Are you finished?" I asked quietly.

Thomas blinked, surprised by my calm demeanor.

I lit another cigarette, exhaling slowly. "My final question: Who's your boss? Who's backing you?"