The air in the Burn Cigar Club didn't just smell of tobacco; it felt like a physical transport through time. It was a return to the era of underground speakeasies and raging prohibition, where the simple act of holding a glass was a rebellion. The dimly lit room was a thick, velvet haze of cedar, peat, and smoke—a scent so luxurious only men of true distinction could appreciate its depth.
Sconces clung to the mahogany walls, casting a rugged, flickering amber glow over rows of floor-to-ceiling glass cases. Inside, single boxes of cigars—some worth more than a suburban home—rested like religious relics behind the glass.
In the deepest corner of the private lounge, the atmosphere grew even heavier. Two overstuffed wingback chairs of oxblood leather faced each other, occupied by two titans who had long since passed their prime. Between them sat a low table holding a single crystal decanter of scotch the color of burnt honey. Beside it, a heavy lead-crystal ashtray collected the silver-grey ruins of two smoldering Cohiba Behike cigars.
A dry, hacking cough suddenly fractured the silence. Leonardo patted his chest, the sound wet and rasping as the fit racked his bones, a brutal reminder of his failing body. He reached into the inside pocket of his charcoal suit jacket, pulling out a crisp white silk handkerchief to cover his mouth. As he pulled the cloth away and tucked it back into his pocket, his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on a small, bright crimson spot of blood.
"Calm down," Leonardo wheezed, his voice a mix of dry grit and wet strain. "At my age, everything looks like we're dying."
He flashed a pointed, sharp-eyed stare at the suit standing in the corner—the new lawyer assigned to his more casual day-to-day needs. He reached for his teacup, ignoring the heavenly scent of the scotch in favor of the steaming oolong. His hands quivered, his liver-spotted fingers trembling as they wrapped around the delicate bone china. He refused to lift his wrist until the tremor subsided. Once it did, he raised the cup to his lips, taking a long, slow sip to soothe his aching throat. In front of someone like Warrick, he refused to appear as a decrepit, dying old man.
"Tea!" Warrick scoffed lightly, taking a small, appreciative sip of his scotch.
Seeing Leonardo Cain reminded him of the glory days—the years they had spent battling for supremacy in the business world, always aiming for the other's jugular. Back then, they had everything to prove and a legacy to build. Now, they were just two old men moving pieces around a board, ensuring the legacy they once gripped with iron fists remained in hands just as attentive.
"Don't be a bastard! I'm a decade older than you," Leonardo countered. Throughout his entire youth, this dog had always been neck-and-neck with him.
"All right. I'll bite," Warrick said, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "Why did you want to see me?"
It was hard for Warrick to believe this was the man he had once idolized and feared.
Leonardo's skin was pale, almost translucent under the amber lights, and his glasses perched precariously at the bridge of his nose. His back was no longer straight; he looked as though he might keel over at any moment. And yet, the fire remained. Warrick could still see the killer lurking behind those aged eyes.
"Legacy. Old men like us... it's all we can think about."
Warrick nodded slowly. He wasn't wrong. Lately, it was the only thing occupying his mind. Who would carry the name? Who would his son entrust with the company? When would his grandchildren produce legitimate offspring? He was blessed with one grandchild already, but a motherless, illegitimate child didn't make a legacy. Not quite.
"I'm looking for husbands for my granddaughter—"
Warrick remembered Vivian vaguely. She wasn't a fixture in their social circles like the other heirs; she seemed to bounce from one prestigious academy to another when she wasn't traveling abroad. From what he knew, she hadn't returned to Springbrook, and she had managed to find herself at the center of more than one scandal in recent years.
"Does Conrad know you're looking to find his daughter a husband?"
As much as Warrick knew their two families would benefit from cooperation, he wasn't sure what kind of hold this "Old Guard" still had on his own son these days. There was a time when no one would dare question Leonardo. Looking at him now, Leonardo felt a sharp pang of jealousy. Warrick was still vibrant in a way that felt light-years away.
Warrick had well-groomed grey hair, a sharp beard, and still dressed like a player on the town. The only real difference between then and now was the color of his hair. Leonardo subconsciously ran a hand over his own scalp, feeling the thinning strands and wishing for the thick brown mane he used to slick back—the look that used to draw every woman's eye in the room.
"He's given her some time to find herself," Leonardo said, his voice regaining some of its old authority. "She's twenty-five. The search is over. There are a few people in our circle I'm looking at. Your grandson... he could be a good match."
Warrick let out a short, dry laugh. All of these kids were so obsessed with "finding themselves." All they had to do was look in a mirror; there they were. When he was their age, he wouldn't have dared utter something so whimsical to his parents without being beaten with a switch.
"I mean no offense, but she's a bit wild," Warrick noted. His granddaughter, Natalia, often spoke of Vivian's trysts with A-list celebrities. He didn't want someone so "free" attached to his family name.
"She's obedient, smart, and talented," Leonardo stated, leveling Warrick with a hard, unblinking glare. "And best of all, she is the sole inheritor of KCV Group. That matters more than any scandal. Besides, I've heard that your grandson isn't exactly a Boy Scout."
Leonardo leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. He wouldn't let this old fool trick him. It wasn't common knowledge, but he knew the Gunner boy had a son. A daughter was one thing, but a firstborn son was a different beast entirely. Few families would risk their daughter's future with a man who had already secured his next generation elsewhere. In Leonardo's eyes, they were on equal footing—if anything, he had the leverage.
Warrick ran his tongue over his teeth, his jaw hardening. Someone was gossiping, and that leak needed to be plugged. The family had worked tirelessly to hide Gunner's son from the public eye, ensuring not a whisper got out until Gunner was married or engaged. If this old goat knew, he wasn't the only one.
"I'll consider her," Warrick conceded.
"Good."
Standing like silent sentinels behind each man were their heads of staff. They were young, sharp-featured lawyers in bespoke suits cut with lines so razor-sharp they screamed Wall Street. But the perfection of their attire couldn't mask their discomfort. Unlike the older men, who sat with the languid ease of lions, the assistants were wound tight.
They stood perfectly upright, clutching heavy leather briefcases like shields. One shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, his thumb tracing the edge of a silver cufflink, while the other stared fixedly at the back of his employer's head, jaw set.
"Don't just stand there," Leonardo snapped as another cough rattled his chest.
Warrick, showing little outward empathy, nonchalantly picked up Leonardo's teacup and placed it firmly in the old man's hands without a glance, allowing the weak moment to pass as if unseen.
Mr. Mailscrum stepped toward Warrick, his briefcase already clicking open. He pulled out a tablet and tapped in a rapid code.
"Biometric scanner required, sir," he murmured, turning the screen toward Warrick. He waited patiently for Warrick to press his palm against the glass to log the bio-signature. Once the NDA appeared, he handed the tablet over.
Simultaneously, Mr. Skin performed the same ritual for Leonardo. Both titans wasted no time, handing the tablets to their respective lawyers to peruse while they took final drags of their nearly finished cigars.
"You are cleared to enter your signature, Mr. Kain."
"I see no issues, Mr. Westbrook."
The men signed the ironclad Non-Disclosure agreements. With the logistics complete, the dossiers were unlocked, granting them access to the private lives of each other's grandchildren.
"Tell me, who's my grandson competing against?" Warrick asked. Neither man opened the files, instead handing the tablets back to the lawyers who retreated into the shadows of the corners.
"Who's up against my granddaughter?" Leonardo echoed.
Both men smiled—a flash of teeth that looked more like a challenge than a gesture of friendship. Neither answered immediately, waiting for the other to blink.
"Darla Polar," Warrick lied through his teeth.
"Ray Oak," Leonardo lied right back.
"Darla is an idiot," Leonardo countered with a smirk. "No way Orlando lets that happen."
"Rey is eighteen," Warrick laughed. "He's not even a man."
The two old foxes laughed, enjoying the few games they could still play. Warrick lifted his crystal glass, the ice clinking against the sides.
"To nosy old men!"
Leonardo clinked his glass against Warrick's, his voice steady for the first time that evening. "To legacy."
Author's note:
I cannot even explain how excited I am for everyone to read this new book.