Chapter 1: DAMON - A Very Good Bad Idea

“She’s dead. It’s true. She’s actually dead!”

Ian stands in the open doorway, bright-eyed and breathless, with the sun-soaked sandy beach and foamy ocean waves crashing beyond his shoulder—looking not unlike that Charlie kid from the Wonka movie, right after he found the final golden ticket.

For two full seconds everyone in the office is struck mute and motionless by the momentous news. And then, as one, they erupt in whooping, cheering applause. The secretaries hug, our high school intern pumps his skinny arms in the air—and if anyone had confetti handy, it’d be flying.

We’re not colossal assholes, I swear.

Ordinarily, celebrating the death of an old woman would be frowned upon.

But Clarabelle Dorothy Edith Spicket was no ordinary woman.

She is . . . was . . . a hundred and two years old—the oldest resident in the Shore Haven—with a personality that was more prickly pine than roses and sunshine. But irritable old people aren’t rare. It makes sense—you stick around this world long enough and you’re bound to get sick of its bullshit.

Clara Spicket was also the sole owner of Block 42, Lot 17, the largest parcel of land in town. Beachfront, with panoramic ocean views and a cedar shake and stone mansion that she and her dearly departed husband built from the ground up.

On the resale market, the property would go for an easy seven million.

But the big picture is anything but easy.

See, once upon a time, Shore Haven was the jewel of the Jersey Shore. Then, like many communities in the last few decades, it got a little rough around the edges. With a decline in summer tourism, local businesses were forced to close, jobs disappeared, tax revenue dried up.

So a few years ago, the town board changed the zoning laws, allowing the single-family Victorian and Nantucket-style homes that dotted the coastline to be replaced with bigger, girthier, job-producing, tax-generating, commercial ventures.

Revitalization had entered the chat. And every real-estate development firm on the East Coast wanted the deal—including us.

But there was a wrinkle in the plan.

And the wrinkle’s name was Clarabelle.

Because Block 42, Lot 17 is the key to the whole kingdom—access roads, drainage, power, sewer, and water lines all have to pass through that property. And unlike her neighbors, who took their above-market buyouts and happily watched their houses get bulldozed to the ground, Clara didn’t want to sell.

She gave the mayor, the board, CEOs, and real-estate developers from far and wide the middle finger—with both age-spotted hands. Clara had built a home here, raised a family here, buried that family here—and with God as her witness, she’d die here.

To the locals, she became the final monster-boss challenge on the path back to prosperity. Basically, the whole town has been waiting for her to kick the bucket. Tough crowd.

Hence, the celebration currently taking place in our office. Because as far as they know, Block 42, Lot 17 is now officially up for grabs. To the highest bidder. It means forward progress for their hometown, and money for whatever real-estate developer gets ownership of the property.

Lots, and lots, and lots of money.

From my office doorway, I hook my thumb over my shoulder, catching the eyes of my partners. “Guys? Meeting.”

As Ian, Riley, and Gage file past me into my office, I snap my fingers to get everyone else’s attention—three quick clicks in rapid succession.

“Get out of here. Get drunk. Go enjoy the day,” I say, then shoo them toward the door.

It’s pointless to be an Ebenezer Scrooge about the time clock. If you want the best from your people, you work them hard, and when they deliver, you let them play hard.

And the people in my firm always deliver. So, they get a holiday . . . a Clara-day.

I close the door behind Gage and the four of us move as one to the meticulously scaled project model encased in glass on the cherrywood table in front of the window.

The model of the future—our future—Shore Haven on the Sea. A beautiful gaggle of Michelin-Star restaurants, high-end shops, a concert venue, parking garages, and luxury condos as far as the eye can see.

“There she blows, boys,” I tell them. “The great white whale. Ours for the taking.”

Gage, Riley, Ian, and I grew up together at the Saint Andrew’s Home for Boys. They are the three people I trust most in the world.

The only people I trust.

So they’re the only people who know that four weeks ago, Clarabelle told me that when she died, she was leaving her house and the entirety of Block 42, Lot 17 . . . to me.

“How are we on financing, Burke?” Gage asks. Because I’m the money man. The MBA and finance guy. I’m the closer.

“Locked and loaded. The project is categorized under revitalization, so state and federally backed banks have millions—hundreds of millions—just waiting to be given away. There will be loans too, of course, which we’ll be able to pay back when Stage 1 of the condos are sold. After that, Stages 2 and 3, the condominiums, commercial rents, and entertainment revenue . . . it’s all gravy.”

While the rest of the real-estate sharks and hometown politicians tried to cajole and strong-arm Clara with tricks and threats of eminent domain, I took the no-bullshit route.

I was a local kid, and there was a time in my life when not a single person on Earth gave a damn about my existence. I know how it feels to be alone in the world—it’s not something you forget.

So I understood Clara.

I didn’t try to charm or scam her. I walked up to her door and introduced myself, then we had tea in her front parlor. I went back the following Wednesday for tea again. And I kept going back, every week, for the last year and three months.

I let her know me. I made sure she wasn’t alone.

And that made all the difference.

“Riley—where are we on legal?”

“Golden. She’s willing the property to you personally, not the company, as is her right.”

“Can Buchanan challenge the will? Because you know the bastard’s going to try.”

Ilias Buchanan is the owner and founder of Buchanan Industries. They’re the Goliath to our David, the Evil Empire to our plucky band of rebels, the fucked-up family from Succession to our Stratton Oakmont.

Riley shakes his head. “He’s not an heir, not a relative. He’s got no standing to challenge anything. Probate courts don’t exactly move at warp speed, but this is about as clear-cut as it gets.”

“He’s got to be pissed about you scooping his last two projects,” Gage says. “This just might be the one that makes the old man stroke out.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

It’s important to have goals in life. My goal is to destroy Ilias Buchanan.

Riley turns his blond head to Gage. “What’s the building schedule look like?”

Gage is our firm’s construction manager, the man who brings Ian’s designs to life.

“Once legal and financing come through, I can have Stage 1 ready for CO approval in six months.”

“Beautiful,” I say, moving around to my desk and sitting down.

Ian’s green eyes follow me, crinkled with concern. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You doing all right? You and Mrs. Spicket were pretty tight.”

Out of the four of us—Ian’s the touchy-feely one. The nice one.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “It is what it is.” I straighten the papers on my desk, centering the black ballpoint pen beside them, before brushing away several specks of nonexistent dust. “She was old. It was her time. It’s good she didn’t suffer.”

Riley lifts a brow. “Sounds like you’re talking about a dog that had to be put down.”

Back in the boys’ home, the Brother Superior had files on all of us—our backgrounds, our medical history, IQ and psych profile. One time, Gage and I broke into the office after lights out, just to see if we could, and I got a look at my file. Emotionally stunted, it said. Disengaged from complex feelings. Irrevocably detached.

I don’t really see it. When did stoicism become a sin?

“All right, get the hell out of my office. I have work to do and so do all of you. Wheels are almost in motion. Let’s make sure they’re greased and ready to roll.”

After they head out, my office seems overly quiet. I tap my fingers against my desk to fill the silence. And for just a second, the image of Clara slips into my mind. Our easy conversation, the way she would chastise and joke around with me, how her eyes would light up when I walked into the parlor.

Jesus, it does sound like I’m talking about a dog.

I push back from my desk and walk to the wall where the large, sepia-colored surveyor’s map of Shore Haven hangs in a teak frame. I move the frame aside and punch the combination into the keypad of the wall safe hidden behind it. It’s where I keep important documents, emergency cash, my parents’ wedding rings, and a prized bottle of 1968 Glenrothes Extraordinary Cask single malt scotch. I’ve been saving it to commemorate an extraordinary occasion—a game-changer—like the day we break ground on Shore Haven on the Sea.

But . . . it just seems more fitting to open it now.

Clara always liked her tea with a little nip of something strong.

Without ceremony, I uncork the bottle and pour two fingers of the golden liquid into the matching lead crystal glass. I’m a natural speech-giver, a persuader, a confident public speaker—when you’ve got nothing to lose and genuinely don’t give a shit about what people think, you’ve got nothing to fear. So the words come easy and sincere as I turn to the window and raise my glass up to the cloudless, powder-blue sky.

“It wasn’t just about the house. I mean, in the beginning it was, as I’m sure you knew. I thought I’d walk in there, spend some time babysitting a feeble old lady, and in a couple of months, I’d walk out with a jackpot. But you surprised me. You were sharp. Funny and cranky and . . . one of a kind. And I ended up with more than a jackpot. You were my friend. It was nice . . .” Some of the dust from my desk finds its way to the back of my throat, and I have to clear it. “I’m going to miss knowing you. Godspeed, Clarabelle.”

I lift the glass a little higher, then bring it to my lips and swallow the sweet, creamy, orange-blossom and spice-flavored liquid.

And what do you know—nine grand tastes pretty damn good.

I recork the bottle and place it back in the safe, thinking about how I’ll finish it off with the guys in just a few weeks. After the property is officially mine. When the deal is done.

And everything about my life will be different.

You should be careful about famous last words. They have a tendency of coming to pass.