Hustler (Masters of Manhattan Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Outlaw (Masters of Manhattan, Book Three)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Thank you so much for reading Hustler

  About Jane Henry

  About Maisy Archer

  Other titles by Jane and Maisy you may enjoy:

  Books by Jane:

  Hustler

  Masters of Manhattan, Book Two

  Jane Henry

  Maisy Archer

  Copyright © 2018 by Jane Henry and Maisy Archer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Thank you so much for reading Hustler

  Outlaw (Masters of Manhattan, Book Three)

  About Jane Henry

  About Maisy Archer

  Other titles by Jane and Maisy you may enjoy:

  Books by Jane:

  Prologue

  Biting wind iced its way through my suit jacket and I gritted my teeth against it. I’d taken the time to find clothes that would make it easier to blend in with whomever I met that night but had neglected to find an overcoat. I preferred to go without them anyway. It was a lot easier to find a place to warm myself than it was to dispose of an overcoat if I had to run.

  I stood, anonymous and alone, in a crowd of people, shivering in the cold shadow of the building that loomed up in front of me. Cars zoomed by and horns honked, and I could smell the wafts of perfume as a woman walked by me, holding onto a man’s arm and laughing prettily, before the scent evaporated in the chill. It felt like snow was coming, though the forecast hadn’t mentioned any. It was a feeling I had in my gut, and I’d learned a long time ago to trust that instinct. Still, even as these thoughts furled in my mind then vanished like smoke, my focus didn’t waver. I clutched the invitation that felt like a sort of summons in my hand. I didn’t fear what awaited me. I had no idea what did. I lived for the adrenaline rush that came with the uncertainty.

  Though the mysterious invitation read 8 pm, I arrived early, not knowing if this would be a private meeting. If any other guests would be arriving, I had to be there first. I needed to get a read on the characters of the people I’d be dealing with.

  Being a con artist defied societal expectations on so many levels.

  Earn trust, then break it.

  Assume everything and nothing.

  Grifting was an art I’d learned from my father when I was a kid. Other kids learned their ABCs and right from wrong from the cradle. Other kids prided themselves on grade-point-averages or SAT scores. We Warners prided ourselves on how quickly we earned trust, how easily we conned people, how deftly we accumulated wealth we’d never honestly earned.

  Notice everything, my father had said.

  Rich or poor? Black or white? Spiritual or not? Gay or straight? I’d learned to trust my instincts and immediately read any situation, so I could manipulate it in whatever way necessary, but took nothing at face value. Other criminals had weapons of iron or steel. Mine were sharp intellect and a winning smile.

  If people had any fucking idea how easy they were to read, they’d wear ski masks. I didn’t need to look at their IDs or history to know who they were. It was written in their eyes. Their clothes. The tan lines where their wedding rings used to be. The way they ran their fingers through their hair. The people they leaned toward, but studiously did not touch. I read body language like it was my native language.

  Hell, maybe it was.

  So I was a helluva lot less interested in what was outside the large building than who was in it. The invitation itself was a display of wealth, thick paper and embossed letters and shit, but even poor people could pretend to be rich easily. I would know pretty quickly if this invitation was a play at wealth or the real deal.

  My senses heightened, the cool pretense of my perfect back story at the ready, should anyone ask.

  Alibi and story, my father would tell me. Always have a back-up plan for both where you were and who you were.

  So I had a litany of background stories, some true and some false.

  Tonight, I was no more than Ethan Warner, high school dropout, who was responding to an invitation with his real name, and that right there was enough to raise suspicions. If shit went sour tonight, I had a solid alibi in place, thanks to one of many women I knew who’d swear she’d been in my bed all evening long, for a price. But it was still weird that someone knew my birth name. No one had called me that in maybe a decade. No one who was still alive, anyway.

  That’s what happened when your childhood ambition was to be a grifter. I’d started putting my skills to use before I was old enough to drive. Who needed to know things like Biology and shit when I could make a hefty income with hardly any effort? I’d realized pretty quickly that, though he claimed to be a criminal mastermind, my father was pretty small-time. I’d been the cute distraction while he grabbed a lady’s purse, the adorable, believable sidekick when he was running his auto-insurance scams. But I’d found other mentors over the years, some completely amoral, others who had their own arbitrary moral codes.

  I’d flitted from one scam to the next, convincing people to sign up for lucrative “work at home” schemes, to fork over their life savings to lose weight, to trust me as the next Bill Gates in pyramid schemes that would rival the best of them. Hell, I’d even hooked up with Darius Lighthouse, the biggest con artist in New York, and together we’d bilked hundreds of people out of their hard-earned money by swindling them out of their retirement funds, among other things. I’d managed to make most of their faces blend into my past, though sometimes they’d come back to haunt me. Thick, chocolate-brown hair, and green eyes behind glasses perched on her nose… I shook my head. I’d hurt people. I had regrets. And focusing now on the ghost of my past would only haunt me.

  After that, I was shocked to find I had a conscience after all, though I’d done my best to lock it away. I threw myself into being a real salesman, relying on mostly honest methods of income. I was getting itchy, though, ready to move on. When things like relationships began to develop it was harder to play the cards right. When my instincts told me to pull up stakes, I listened.

  Then the invitation came.

  I wasn’t easily swindled, so my suspicions rose when I got a letter with my real name embossed on the front in charcoal-black lettering. And my carefully-orchestrated mask fell with one line that made my stomach churn with anger and grief.

  Eli’s death wasn’t what you thought it was.

  Eli… my twin brother. We’d been mirror-images of each other, with the same auburn hair and fair skin, tall, lithe builds, and blue eyes. Having a look-alike had come in handy, when we were kids. He’d given up grifting when we got older, but we’d been close. That is, until his sudden death ended everything.

  I wanted to be there first, so I could find a strategic place to sit. I’d get a good read on any other p
eople present by watching the way they entered, the way they held themselves, how they shook my hand, where they sat.

  Making my way to the limestone building on Park Avenue, I found the address easily as I’d already mapped it out and attempted to look into whoever lived at the address. It was a private residence, and I got nothing, though. Whoever lived here wanted to remain off the grid.

  As soon as I neared the entrance, the door opened, and man in uniform looked at me questioningly. “May I help you, sir?” His voice held a heavy accent.

  “I’m here for a meeting,” I said, my hand on the invitation in my pocket.

  One short nod. “Your name?”

  Pausing before answering was an outward sign of guilt, one I was not willing to risk. And what would be the point of a different name if I’d been sent an invitation using my real name? My defenses were not on anonymity tonight, but strategic reaction. So without preamble I smiled warmly, and extended my hand. “Ethan Warner.” His new best friend. “And is that a Spanish accent I detect, sir?”

  His lips turned up and his eyes softened a bit. “Edgar Rivera, and you are quite right. My family is originally from Argentina.”

  “Ah,” I said, easily lapsing into familiar conversation, winning him over. A thrill rippled through me with how easily I could do this. “Buenos Aires is one of the loveliest places I’ve ever visited. I can still taste the dulce de leche, still hear the waterfalls…” I’d never left the United States but had a ready catalog of places I could easily pull up, having studied them religiously.

  Answer personal details, connect on a personal level, and people would begin to feel they knew you.

  “What part did you travel to, sir?”

  My mind flipped through my internal catalog. “Recoleta,” I said. “I studied the life of Evita my senior year in college and made it my goal to visit her grave.”

  His eyes grew reverent and he nodded his head. “This way, sir. Recoleta is beautiful.” He slid a card in the elevator that was weirdly devoid of all buttons.

  “Cleared for the penthouse.” The voice carried over in a speaker.

  We rode in silence, and he led me off when we reached my floor. “Thank you, Edgar.”

  “My pleasure, sir. Please do let me know if I can be of any assistance to you.”

  It was that easy. I might never see Edgar again, but if I did, I’d have a leg up.

  He bowed and took his leave, leaving me in the presence of a huge man wearing a tux, with hard blue eyes and blond hair pulled back in a queue. His face was impassive, and I wondered if it was from apathy or disinterest. I’d soon find out.

  “Ethan Warner,” I said affably, sticking my hand out to him. “And you are…?” He turned an ice-blue gaze to mine, his lips thinned, jaw clenched, and he ignored my outstretched hand.

  Ah, yes. Brilliant. Stony silence was his go-to, then. Since he left me in a large, expensive foyer that led to an even larger sitting-room, this didn’t much matter to me as he left. I quickly glanced around and found that I wasn’t the first one here as planned, but the second.

  A guy with blond hair and a familiar profile caught my attention, sitting in an armchair near the door. I approached him, a genial smile on my face.

  “Hey,” I said. He looked up, gaze penetrating mine, and at once I knew him. Xavier Malone. Wall Street entrepreneur. He’d made the headlines several years back after the mysterious death of his sister made the news and he and his family had put millions of dollars into pursuing those responsible for her death. The courts had ruled her death accidental, and it was the last I’d heard of the Malones.

  “And you are?” he asked in an imperious, bored tone.

  “Ethan Warner,” I said, extending my hand. He looked down but at least took it and shook like a man, no flicker of recognition registering in his eyes. Good. I preferred people not know me, and there was no reason why a man of his stature should.

  “Are you here for the same reason I am?” I asked.

  “Depends,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “I received an invitation to come here tonight,” I said.

  He turned away, dismissing me. “Same.” He offered nothing else.

  Great crowd here tonight.

  With his back now to me, I took it as my indication I was no longer welcome to speak to him, so I took the time to peruse our surroundings.

  We were in an elaborate library, furnished in dark wood, a large stone fireplace ensconced in one wall, and a huge mahogany desk sitting formidably against another. The room spoke of wealth and opulence yet lacked a decidedly personal touch. I came to one of two conclusions: either our host preferred privacy, or the room had been inherited from someone else and stripped of the personal belongings. Other choices were an option, but those seemed to be a good starting point.

  Before I could contemplate further, the elevator doors swung open again. A tall guy dressed in plain khakis and a button-down white shirt a hair too small, stepped out with the silent host. He spoke to no one and merely glanced around the room. His clothing had likely been borrowed like mine, so I concluded that unlike Xavier, who clearly wore a bespoke suit, formal wear was out of the ordinary for this guy.

  He flitted in like a bird, all nervous energy, and alighted on a stool by the bar, not looking at me or Xavier. I walked over to him. He seemed uncomfortable even being around other people.

  “Ethan Warner,” I said, shaking his hand. He took mine and his dark eyes warmed to me. Though he didn’t smile, his tone was friendly, his handshake firm.

  “Walker Smith,” he said, the response laced in a Spanish accent.

  Before we got a chance to speak, the elevator opened once more. Shit. How many people were coming tonight? Then out stepped literally the biggest man I’d ever laid eyes on. He towered over the tall elevator man and stepped into the room like a man stepping up to a child’s play table, far too big to fit comfortably in his surroundings. His gaze came straight to me.

  I gave him a chin lift. “Howdy.”

  He nodded slowly and made his way over to where Walker and I stood.

  “Hello,” he said, in a deep but gentle voice. His head was shaved bald and he was dressed in black slacks and a polo shirt, his massive neck stretching the collar. It was hard not to gape at him.

  I introduced myself. “Ethan Warner. This here is Walker, and the gentleman you see there is Xavier Malone.”

  He nodded once. “Caelan Jamison.”

  I noticed a small bar set up complete with a filled ice-bucket.

  “Drink?” I asked the men. They eyed me warily, but Xavier stood, poured himself a brandy, then went back to where he sat before without speaking to anyone. Caelan just took a bottle of water, and Walker and I both poured glasses of wine.

  “Nice place,” Walker said to me, and I nodded. It was an understatement and I knew then Walker came from humble circumstances like my own. He was awed by the opulence, however, where I was wary.

  “Wonder if there are any more guests,” Caelan asked from the couch, sipping his water and eyeing each of us in turn.

  “One more guest,” Xavier said, surprising me.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  He shrugged a bored shoulder and looked away. “I asked the doorman.”

  Well that was smart of him. I could’ve dope-slapped myself.

  Who would the final guest be? Caelan stood and walked to the bookshelves, easily grasping those far out of my reach. He perused the titles and ran his fingers over the leather binding and gilded edges. A reader, then, one who clearly loved books.

  Walker took a phone out of his pocket, swiped a few things on it, and from my vantage point I didn’t see notifications or social media, as anyone else might check, but rather the security network emblem. He was curious about the internet connection and privacy? Weird.

  The doors to the elevator swung open one final time. I wanted to greet our new arrival, so I walked to the foyer and met him as he entered.

  I smiled an
d held out my hand. “Ethan Warner.”

  He looked into my eyes and seemed momentarily bewildered, before he reached for my hand and shook it. “Daly.”

  Jesus. The Anson Daly?

  I felt my eyes narrow. “Saint Daly?”

  He blinked, clearly taken aback. “Call me Anson. Or Daly. I don’t go by Saint much anymore.”

  Fair enough. “Alright then. Too bad, though. From what I’ve heard, I think I might have liked Saint.”

  “No,” he said. “You really wouldn’t.”

  I doubted it. I knew from his past he was a thief revered even among the best of them.

  Not denying who he was, then, and not proud of it either. I introduced him to the others, then welcomed him to take a drink, but he refused. Interesting.

  Saint? A teetotaler?

  But before any of us could say another word, the door to the foyer swung shut, and a huge TV blinked on. Five sets of eyes swung to the TV at once, five gazes riveted as a voice began speaking. An elderly woman, curly silver hair piled atop her head and small, rounded spectacles on her nose, sat placidly with her hands folded on her knees.

  “I’m about to die, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, gentlemen. The people who’ll kill me don’t care that I’m old or rich. They don’t care that I haven’t long to live in any case, or that the only reason I’ve hung on this long is to get justice for my sweet husband. They’ll make my death seem like the simplest accident or the most natural death imaginable, just like they did for my Trevor.”

  Trevor. I knew immediately who that was. Federal judge Trevor Carmichael, found murdered in his sleep not two weeks before. I shivered, suddenly realizing what she was talking about. But I couldn’t dwell on this announcement, as she continued.

  “...Just like they did for your mother, Anson Daly. Your brother, Ethan Warner.” My stomach clenched, my hands fisted, and yet she went on like tidal waves crashing in a storm, relentless and destructive.