Chapter 499
Chapter 498:
And Jocelyn Wolfe Collins — whether she acknowledged it or not — was the most precious thing he had ever claimed.
The hotel suite was exactly what she needed. High floor, corner room, windows on two sides. From her vantage point, Jocelyn could see the entire block — the elegant facade of her own property, and the plain brick warehouse sitting adjacent like a tumor.
It was eleven PM. The noise had started at ten, as it apparently did every night — a low thrum she could feel in her teeth even at this height, punctuated by occasional bursts of shouting, music, and something that might have been breaking glass.
She had read Davis’s file thoroughly. Frank DeLuca, age forty-seven, born in South Philly, had built his empire on parking garages, strip clubs, and the kind of businesses that preferred cash transactions. He had been arrested twice, convicted never. He contributed to the right campaigns, knew the right people, and wielded the kind of local influence that made official channels all but useless.
𝗙і𝗇𝖽 ոо𝗏𝖾𝗅 р𝘋Fs оn
He was, in other words, exactly the kind of man she had spent her early career learning to handle.
She picked up her phone and dialed the number Davis had provided — a cell that apparently rang straight to the owner.
It rang four times. Then: “Yeah p>
“Mr. DeLuca.” Jocelyn kept her voice level, professional, and entirely unthreatening. “My name is Jocelyn Wolfe. I’m the CEO of the hotel you’re currently damaging with your nightclub. I’d like to discuss a solution p>
A pause. Then laughter — wet and ugly. “Wolfe? That your real name? Cute. Listen, sweetheart, I don’t know what Davis told you, but this is a legitimate business. We’ve got permits. We’ve got licenses. You got a problem with noise, take it up with the city p>
“I intend to.” Jocelyn walked to the window, looking down at the street where his customers were lining up, loud and drunk and entirely indifferent to the sleeping guests in her building. “But I thought I’d give you the courtesy of a direct conversation first. Twenty-four hours, Mr. DeLuca. Soundproof your building, or close your doors. Those are your options p>
The laughter stopped.
“Twenty-four hours?” DeLuca’s voice had changed, dropping into a register designed to intimidate. “You know who I am, sweetheart? You know what I can do? In this city, I am the permits. I am the licenses. I am the city.” He paused, letting it settle. “You stay in your pretty hotel. You mind your own business. And maybe — maybe — nothing happens to those pretty windows of yours. Accidents happen. Bricks fall. Rocks get thrown. Shame if someone got hurt p>
Jocelyn felt her pulse quicken — not with fear, but with recognition. This was the moment. The threat that transformed a business dispute into something personal, something that justified any response.
“Thank you for clarifying your position,” she said. Her voice was ice. “I’ll take that under advisement p>
She hung up. She stood at the window, watching his customers move in and out of his club, studying the pattern of his operation, calculating the timeline.