2

Kingston

“They call it luxury.”

I adjust my Tom Ford cufflinks—black on black, because subtlety’s dead and I helped bury it.

“I call it hunting grounds.”

The elevator operator doesn’t respond. Smart. Most people who work here have learned when to keep their mouths shut around me.

Stratford was built for men who mistake their trust funds for talent and their mistresses for meaningful relationships. Walking contradictions in Brioni suits, flashing Patek Philippes like participation trophies while their wives are at home playing pharmaceutical roulette with Xanax and Chardonnay.

“Penthouse,” I tell him, though he already knows.

Twenty-five grand a night buys these idiots the illusion of control. They think they’re wolves. Really? They’re sheep in designer clothing, and I’m the one who bought their wool.

The doors whisper open.

“Kingston! Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

Marcus Whitmore. Third-generation wealth, first-generation spine problems. His handshake’s too firm—overcompensation for everything else that’s gone soft.

“Business in Miami ran late,” I say, accepting his desperate grip. “You know how it is.”

“Oh, absolutely. Margaret! Come meet Kingston Romano.”

His wife materializes like an expensive ghost. Diamond necklace could fund a small country. Empty smile could power one.

“Mr. Romano,” she purrs, extending her hand like she expects me to kiss it.

I do. They all love that old-world shit.

“Margaret. You look stunning tonight.”

She giggles. Actual giggling. From a forty-something woman who probably has more degrees than brain cells.

“Marcus, get Kingston a drink. He looks positively exhausted.”

Marcus scurries off like a trained seal. Good dog.

I let them play dress-up, let them toast their meaningless mergers, smile while they trade wives and dignity for corner offices and momentary validation. All while I’m writing the checks they cash, pulling strings until their egos choke them like silk ties twisted just a touch too tight.

“So,” Margaret leans in, voice dropping to what she probably thinks is seductive. “Miami business must be… stimulating.”

“Deadly boring,” I lie smoothly. “Nothing compared to New York sophistication.”

She practically melts.

Power doesn’t belong to the man with the loudest voice. It belongs to the one with the deepest pockets. And mine? Bottomless.

They barely glance my way when I move through the crowd. Probably think I’m hired muscle or some ex-executive who couldn’t hack their pathetic shark tank.

That’s the fun part.

Let them ignore the devil, as long as he’s wearing cufflinks.

“Kingston fucking Rodriguez.”

Vincent Castillo appears at my shoulder, whiskey already in hand. My oldest friend. My most reliable enemy.

“Vincent.” I don’t turn around. “Thought you were avoiding me these days.”

“Hard to avoid someone who owns half of Manhattan.” He moves to face me, smile sharp enough to perform surgery. “Heard you had some complications down south.”

“Complications.” I taste the word like bad wine. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Walk with me.”

We drift toward the windows. Manhattan spreads below us like a circuit board made of greed and ambition.

“How much?” Vincent asks.

“Enough to matter.”

“Alvez?”

I shrug. “Says it was federal. I think someone’s been whispering bedtime stories.”

“And you think it’s him?”

“I think loyalty’s become a seasonal commodity.” I finish my drink. Macallan 18. No ice. No bullshit. Just the bite. “Seven years, Vincent. Seven years he’s been solid.”

“Maybe he got tired of being solid.”

“Maybe he got tired of breathing.”

Vincent chuckles—the sound of expensive ice cracking. “There’s the Kingston I know and fear.”

The thing about trust in my world? It’s like oxygen. Precious, necessary, and once it’s gone, you’re already suffocating.

I built this empire on Miami’s bloody foundation. New York’s where I launder the money, but Miami’s where the product moves. Where bodies work. Where blood stays warm.

When something threatens that balance, I don’t delegate. I don’t negotiate. I don’t send strongly-worded letters.

I eliminate the problem.

“The Sutton girl’s here,” Vincent observes, changing subjects like he’s changing channels.

My spine stiffens before I can stop it. Mistake. Vincent notices everything.

“Camila Sutton,” I say carefully.

“Engaged to that Caldera prick. Shame.” He grins like he’s discovered plutonium. “She’s exactly your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Rich, damaged, and completely off-limits.” He counts on his fingers. “Usually comes with trust fund issues and daddy problems.”

“Fuck off, Vincent.”

“There it is.” Mock toast. “The charm offensive I’ve been waiting for.”

That’s when I see her.

Camila Elouise Sutton walks into the room and every coherent thought in my head spontaneously combusts.

The dress—royal blue silk that moves like liquid sin—isn’t what stops my breathing. It’s her. The way she carries herself like she’s dancing to music nobody else can hear. East Coast breeding mixed with deep Louisiana heat, sugar and spice and everything that could destroy me.

“She’s beautiful,” Vincent says quietly. “Also completely untouchable.”

“Everything worthwhile usually is.”

“Kingston.” His voice drops, serious now. “The Calderas aren’t weekend players. You can’t just buy your way around them.”

“Who mentioned buying anything?”

She’s moving through the crowd like she owns it, which she probably does. Old money tends to own everything, including the air other people breathe. But there’s something underneath the polish—restlessness, frustration, hunger for something these trust fund vampires could never provide.

Her laugh carries over the classical quartet. Throaty. Real. Nothing like the crystalline giggles echoing around us.

“I need another drink,” I tell Vincent.

“Your glass is full.”

I’m already walking away.

She’s found refuge in the lounge’s shadowy corner. Smart move. Far enough from the performance to breathe, close enough to the exit if things go sideways.

She’s traded champagne for whiskey. Even smarter.

“Rough night?”

She looks up, startled. For a heartbeat, the society princess mask slips completely. Raw vulnerability flickers across her features like lightning.

“Do I know you?” But her voice suggests she already knows the answer.

“Kingston Rodriguez.” I gesture to the empty chair across from her. “Mind if I sit?”

Those dark eyes—deeper than midnight, sharper than broken promises—catalog everything. My watch. My cufflinks. The fact that I’m not trying to impress her.

“Free country,” she says finally. “For now.”

I sit. The leather sighs under my weight.

“Let me guess,” I continue. “Someone ambushed you by the caviar station asking about wedding colors?”

“Three someones. And they weren’t asking—they were conducting an inquisition.” She sips her whiskey, winces slightly. “Apparently my engagement is community property now.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” The words taste like poison. “It’s everything I never wanted.”

The honesty could cut glass. I like her already.

“Prescott Caldera. Good bloodline. Old money.” I test the name like it’s a new weapon. “Probably sends his mother flowers every Sunday.”

“Every Friday, actually.” Her laugh has no humor in it. “He’s very… attentive.”

“Attentive’s overrated.”

Her eyes snap to mine. “Is it?”

“Obsession’s more interesting.”

Silence stretches between us like a loaded gun. She sets down her glass with surgical precision.

“You’re dangerous,” she says quietly.

“So are you.”

“I’m engaged.”

“I noticed.”

“Happily engaged.”

“Now you’re lying.”

Her spine straightens like I’ve hit a nerve. Which I have.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” I lean forward, invasion disguised as conversation. “I know you’re here alone while your devoted fiancé works late. I know you ordered whiskey instead of champagne. I know you’re hiding in shadows, counting minutes until you can escape.”

“Maybe I prefer solitude.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Prescott Caldera isn’t as devoted as those flower deliveries suggest.”

Her jaw tightens. Bullseye.

“That’s quite an assumption.”

“It’s not an assumption. It’s pattern recognition.”

She stands abruptly, silk whispering secrets. “This conversation is over.”

“Is it?”

She hesitates, clutching her purse like armor. For one unguarded moment, I see past the breeding and the polish—the loneliness, the hunger, the desperate need for something real in a world built on expensive lies.

Then the mask snaps back into place.

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Romano.”

But she doesn’t move. Not yet.

Her body knows what her mind won’t admit—that walking away from me is the smart play. The safe choice.

And safety, I’m beginning to realize, is the last thing Camila Sutton actually craves.

She shifts her weight, fabric caressing skin, and I watch recognition flicker in those midnight eyes like struck matches.

She feels me the same way I feel her—like electricity searching for something to destroy.

She turns slowly, deliberately, graceful as a predator disguised as prey.