Leaving me in charge of a multimillion-dollar distillery that was struggling, even though we were the oldest one operating in the United States. We’d beaten Prohibition, rising costs and increased competition and survived. But nothing, it seemed, would survive my brother’s mistake. I spun in my chair, my gaze landing on the dusty painting hanging on the brick wall, conveniently spotlighted by new LED lighting.
I strode to the picture and blew away the dust clouding the air. The artist had depicted a cruel-looking man of about thirty with a classically sculpted face, shadowed eyes and dark, swept-back hair. Added together, the effect was mesmerizing—falling somewhere between classically beautiful and smolderingly sexy.
To me, he was neither of those things. For me, Forge only represented hope.
I’d stared at that painting for longer than I cared to admit, especially since I’d taken over the company. I’d been toying with finding Forge and asking for a loan for months now, and every single time I considered it, my emotions warred between intrigue and fear. According to family legend, Bastian Forge’s reputation had always fallen somewhere between a savior and a devil, with emphasis on the latter.
Truthfully, I knew little about him except for cautionary tales. But every generation of Langstons knew the family secret, then passed it down to the next. We’d founded our company on a generous loan from a reclusive vampire, which was why his name still appeared on the company stationery, as well as the front of the building.
Still, it was easy to forget he existed.
No one had seen him in the flesh, not since our ancestor took the money and signed the agreement, which hung right next to the painting. The penned accord had almost faded away, but the signatures were still clearly legible—Adolphus Langston and Bastian Forge—in a dark, aggressive scrawl that I knew was blood.
“I can’t believe you still have those relics hanging up. I told your father to put them in storage a long time ago.” Holloway’s voice still carried a touch of Southern honey, even after all this time in the north.
I shrugged as I turned to him. “Family tradition, I guess.”
Emerson Holloway, Esquire, was the only person I trusted these days, and to that end, I didn’t mince words. “I’m going to find him and ask him to bail out the company.” I didn’t add the word again, even though I was thinking it. “That’s why I asked for three days.”
His already pale face went sheet white. “Selena, you know…”
“Yeah, I know.” I waved my hand around, but only managed to stir up the dust still hanging in the stagnant air. “He’s dangerous, we swore an oath, he’s impossible to find, blah, blah, blah.”
Part of the original deal was that no Langston, however desperate, was to ever seek him out. But the company going under and being sold off piecemeal was definitely worse than desperate. This was end-of-the-world shit. Besides, he probably wasn’t even alive anymore, so this was most likely a total waste of time.
Except…someone had left a note on my desk two weeks ago.
It was signed Bastian Forge, in the same angry scrawl as the agreement.
The security cameras came up blank, as if he’d materialized in and out.
“Selena.” Holloway’s voice took on that gentle, let-me-talk-some-sense-into-you tone that I’d grown so fond of over these past six months. “Maybe it’s time to let this place go. After what your brother did, I don’t think we can bounce back from that. I’ve done everything I can think to do to save this place. I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t lying. Holloway had dedicated his life to this company, and my family. The inside joke was that our blood flowed eighty proof, unless we were having a bad day, and then it flowed a hundred and fifty, and nobody had better light a match.
Unfortunately, my brother never believed in family, or blood, or loyalty. His passions leaned more toward cocaine and gambling, hence the sketchy multimillion-dollar loan. When Dad tried to help Brandon out of his situation, they’d both ended up dead in a car at the bottom of the Delaware River, each with a single shot to the head. I’d never forgive Brandon for that, never forgive him for allowing Dad to get caught up in his troubles.
By the time the police had wrapped up their investigation, I was running the company and didn’t have the luxury of grieving. But I could still hold on to my anger.
After Dad—who was also our master distiller—died, distributors stopped ordering. They were worried about quality control and delivery issues, and I didn’t blame them for doubting. Who was going to trust a twenty-year-old with no apparent business sense to run a respected company?
“I’m going to save Langston-Forge, Emerson. Any way I can.” I didn’t know if Bastian Forge was still alive—the note not withstanding—but if anyone knew where he was, it would be Holloway.
“Contacting Bastian Forge is not the way to save anything. You can rebuild…”
“Twelve years, Emerson. That’s how long it will take to rebuild from scratch.” And in the meantime, my whisky—the best I’ve ever made—will be bottled and sold by someone else. Or, worse yet, thrown into a blend where no one will ever taste it.
“You’re young, Selena. Twelve years is not that long.”
“We only need enough operating capital for six months,” I countered evenly, watching his lined face for a sign he’d help me instead of talking me out of this.
Holloway took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, leaving them red. He’d put hours into negotiating this deal, from petitioning the bank for more time, to maneuvering the board to make me a handsome buyout offer. I didn’t want the money. I wanted to run a world-class whisky distillery. All I needed was a chance.
Holloway’s face seemed haggard as he said, “You sure have a lot of faith in those barrels in Warehouse Seven.”
“Yes. I do.”
Warehouse Seven held eight thousand barrels of my
