He wouldn’t have come if he didn’t have that intention, especially after putting us off for two years.
Dimitri’s presentation is flawless. He could have handled it without me with his eyes closed.
But there’s only one problem.
He’s not Braden Black.
…
“You have a gift, Brady,” Momma said to me after Benji had fallen asleep.
“A present? Where is it?”
She smiled at me and swept my hair—I always needed a haircut—off my forehead and then kissed it.
“I’m not talking about the kind of gift you unwrap,” she said. “I’m talking about something God gave you. Something you were born with.”
I was born with a gift? Why hadn’t I ever seen it? I didn’t understand.
“It’s confidence,” Momma said.
“What’s con-fee-dance?” I asked.
“It’s something that will take you far,” she said.
“All the way to the other side of the world? Like to China?”
She laughed. “Maybe. Who knows? But I don’t mean far away. I mean far in life. You’ll do great things. I know it.”
“How do you know it?” I asked Momma.
“I see it in you already. You’re only seven years old, but you’re the leader of all your friends. Of your brother. They look up to you because they see your confidence, and they want it, too.”
I still didn’t know what Momma was talking about, but I liked hearing her voice. And since it was bedtime, she wasn’t wearing her scarf, so I could see her pretty face.
“One day, you’re going to be a great man, Brady.”
“Why, Momma? Why will I be a great man?”
She kissed my forehead again. “Because you’re Braden Black.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Ben, Dimitri, Lizzie, and I celebrate with a gourmet lunch at Gabriel LeGrand. Afterward, before the next meeting, I take a walk through the Diamond District between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. I love the old New York feel of the area.
“Hey, boss!” A hawker calls out to me. “You buying?”
I walk by.
As many cops as hawks hang out in the district—probably the last old block in all of New York City. As much as technology has done for my business and for me, I can’t help but wonder if we’re missing out on old-world culture.
Old-world culture is abundant in the Diamond District.
I’m not looking for anything in particular. I don’t wear jewelry myself, other than a watch, and I’ve never purchased a piece for a woman—other than the pieces my Boston jeweler designs for my staff members for the holidays. I ignore the hawks and stop in front of a shop called Gray & Davis. A diamond choker draws my gaze.
It’s beautiful in its simplicity.
I imagine placing it around Skye’s creamy neck—collaring her.
God, collaring her.
I’ve never collared a woman, other than on a scene-by-scene basis. If I take a woman into my club, she’s under my protection, so I collar her. But it’s a temporary collar for the club only, so that others will know not to approach her.
Before I can think better of it, I walk into the store.
A clerk accosts me within a second. “What can I help you find, sir?”
“There’s a diamond choker in the window. I’d like to see it, please.”
“Of course.” The clerk unlocks the bars protecting the pieces in the glass showcase, withdraws the choker, and hands it to me. “The piece is from the nineteen twenties. It’s set in white gold and has just over seven carats of VSS-clarity round-cut diamonds.”
“It’s heavier than I expected,” I say.
“Yes, it is. They don’t make pieces like this anymore.”
“How much is it?”
“Fifty thousand dollars, sir.”
A lot of money for a woman who may very well never consent to being collared.
But already I know this gorgeous choker belongs to Skye. Whether it becomes a collar or not, it’s already hers.
“I’ll take it.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Just like that?”
“You expect me to haggle?”
“Most people do.”
“Well, I’m in a hurry.” My gaze falls on a black pearl choker in one of the inside display cases.
Skye’s neck was made for a choker, and this one won’t be a collar.
“How much is that one?” I ask. “The black pearl.”
“Those are premium cultured pearls from Japan, hand-knotted with a platinum clasp.”
“Right. How much?”
“Three thousand five hundred.”
“Would it make you feel better if I asked you to throw that in with the diamond purchase?”
“I can take two hundred off the pearls, sir.”
“Sold.” I pull out my wallet.
…
I leave the Diamond District with my purchases, ready to head back to my Manhattan office, when an idea strikes me. I don’t want to wait to give Skye the pearl choker. I want her to have it today. No service will get it to her that quickly, so I click a photo of the piece and place a call to my Boston jeweler.
“Donald,” I say into the phone, “Braden Black.”
“Hello, Mr. Black. What can I do for you?”
“I’m texting you a photo of a black pearl choker. Take a look at it. Do you have something similar in stock?”
I wait a few minutes while he checks the photo.
“I have a lovely one from Akimoto Designs. The pearls are slightly smaller, but it’s a fifteen-inch choker much like your photo.”
“Excellent. Charge it to me, and I want it delivered this afternoon in plain brown paper. Put a handwritten note in an envelope on the package. Got it?”
“Yes, of course. What would you like the note to say?”
I ponder his question for a few seconds. “I’ll text it to you. That way you have it in writing.”
“Good enough. And the address?”
“It’s going to Skye Manning. I’ll text the particulars.”
“Very good, Mr. Black. Thank you for your business.”