Best Served Cold

Chapter 1:

Jackson Fielding stood in the dark, the echo of a past life humming beneath the floorboards of Marcus Moore’s estate.

The safe was hidden behind a panel of fake shelving in the study — walnut veneer, barely dusted. Moore hadn’t been here in weeks. He was at his summer home in the Hamptons, with his family, like he was the second week of August each and every year. Jackson knew this. He had been tracking Marcus Moore for years.

Collecting data.

Waiting for patterns.

Searching for cracks.

He was a patient man. But a vengeful one.

Tonight, he would put his plan in motion.

And Marcus Moore would finally pay.

The code clicked softly under his fingers — one digit at a time. Not guessed. Researched. Buried in architectural plans, city permits, invoices, forged inspection reports. Moore had built an empire by cutting corners.

Jackson had simply followed the seams.

With a soft click, the safe opened.

He allowed himself a thin chuckle. “Who the hell uses the same password for everything anymore?”

Inside: a wall of crisp hundred-dollar bills. A velvet box. A leather folder. A gold ring with an M engraved into the face. Matching cufflinks. Money aged into metal. Moore’s father’s ring — and his grandfather’s before that.

Not for long.

Jackson took the box first. Then the folder. Then the jewelry. He shoved them into one of three duffels he’d brought with him.

He fanned through the stacked cash. Four hundred bands. Ten grand per stack.

Four million dollars.

And tucked behind them: a million more in bearer bonds. Not a fortune for Moore, but enough to run. Enough to vanish. A typical crime boss’s go-stash.

Jackson paused and relived a memory that had plagued him for 15 years.