“What—what do you mean?” Gardner asked, a prickle traveling up his spine like a spider.
“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean?’” Faber replied lazily. “It’s his birthright. What did you think was going to happen?”
“I—what? Birthright? I thought that Janus was democratic. What is this, a coup?”
Faber laughed, an all-out guffaw that echoed around the tiny room. “Good God, Letour really kept you in the dark.” Faber studied his nails, like he wasn’t sure whether he should tell him much either. He almost seemed to be enjoying the other man’s obvious ignorance.
Gardner’s eyes narrowed. He wouldn’t beg. He would not.
“De Vries didn’t stage a coup,” Faber said almost lazily. “Carson did. And he was successful for the last twenty-odd years or so. But before him, Eric’s father was the caesar. And his father before that. And so on, since the beginning of the society itself.” He shrugged again. “Now the prince shot the usurper dead. Dethroned the fraud. What’s the saying? ‘The king is dead. Long live the king.’”
The prickle turned into an all-out icicle. Gardner felt as though he couldn’t breathe. Oh God. Oh fucking God. Eric de Vries was now the head of the most powerful underground organization in the country? Janus, through its previous leader, had essentially sponsored nearly all of Gardner’s illegal activities for the past ten years. It had all been in exchange for the promise of membership—what Gardner had desired more than anything in the world. To be truly special. Elite.
And now…those dreams were slipping away along with his company, his marriage, everything he had claimed as his over the past ten years.
“He wouldn’t,” Gardner argued. “There’s no way Eric will accept the position. Jude said he was done with it.”
“Jude is going away for the next twenty years because of his part in the abduction of de Vries’s little wife,” Faber replied. “He doesn’t matter to any of us anymore. He’s out.”
“But Eric’s a black sheep,” Gardner tried again. “And soon he won’t have the company anymore either. I’m fighting the will in probate, you know—”
“You’ll lose,” Faber informed him. “Do you really think there is a single judge in New York, or even the country, who will rule against the de Vries bank accounts? Not to mention the old lady had those assets locked up tighter than her wrinkly old arse.”
Gardner frowned in distaste. He had always, always hated Celeste de Vries more than any of them. The old hag had treated him like a common thief, watching him at family dinners like he was going to steal her precious silver and Limoges.
“Still,” Gardner said, more weakly now. “Eric hates the society. I can’t believe he’ll want to lead it now.”
Faber shrugged. “Eric is more like his family than he thinks he is. When I informed him of the society’s plans, his response was something along the lines of, ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ And if that makes me his enemy…well, I’ll be working harder now to be his friend again. And so will everyone else.”
That might have been the exact moment when Gardner’s blood ran cold.
“So, what?” he demanded, spitting onto the table before he could help it. “Did you call me to this fucking cell to tell me I have to kiss Eric’s ass now?”
“Oh, I think that time has passed, don’t you?” Faber replied. “I just called you here to see you squirm. And to tell you that as of today, to you, the Janus society does not exist. The accounts in the Caymans have been transferred to Deutsche Bank under a different name. The properties in New England will still belong to you under Pantheon—until the IRS seizes them, I assume—but we will have no more dealings with you, your company, or any of your known associates, including Ms. Calvert.”
Shaw, Gardner thought. That must have been why the old codger had dropped Caitlyn the second she was implicated in the trial. She might as well go back to using Csaszar, if she could even remember how to say it.
Faber slapped his palm on the table, startling Gardner and yanking him out of his own thoughts.
“This is your only warning,” Faber said. “As of now, you’re on your own. If you contact me or any member using the society name again, it may be the last thing you ever do.”
He stood back up with a terrible, chilling smile. One that Gardner had wished he could give to his own enemies, once upon a time.
“Goodbye, Gardner. I’d say good luck, but I’m not sure I mean it.” Faber cocked his head. “To be honest, I’m sort of hoping Eric still has a taste for vengeance. It’ll make this year a lot more fun if he does.”
The door slammed behind him, and Gardner waited another full twenty minutes, until his heart rate dropped to half normal, until there were no longer telltale drops of perspiration across his brow. Then he stood up and climbed the stairs to the lobby to exit the building himself.
Once outside, the blare of New York shouted at him from all around. He pulled out his cell phone as he turned in the direction of the subway—the fucking subway—and dialed the first name on his recent contacts.
“Bleeker and Levy.”
“Isaac Levy,” Gardner barked, ignoring the loud cry of a taxi horn when he almost stumbled into the street.
“One moment, please.”
He had finally reached the subway top, but he would wait here to have his conversation. He wasn’t interested in the cretins down below overhearing his private business. After the fucking Village Voice article, you never knew who was looking in on you these days.
The hold music switched off and was
