He looked at me with pure, unadulterated contempt—the same look he had given me at our wedding six years ago.
“Don’t look at us like that, boy,” Arthur said, his voice dripping with condescension as he tapped his silver-headed walking stick against the floor.
“You’ve got money, Adrian.
You buy nice dinners, you own a decent house.
But don’t you ever confuse wealth with power.
In this city, we own the judges.
We own the police chief.
We own the prosecutors.
You are a nobody.
A soft, pathetic middleman.
You touch one of my sons, and I will ensure you spend the rest of your miserable life in a maximum-security cell.”
For six years, I had let them believe that.
Clara knew I owned a prosperous business.
She knew we were comfortable.
But she never knew why United States senators answered my calls on the first ring.
