Chapter 1 Bentley I stepped outside, and inhaled a lungful of air. After the past four days of steamy, oppressive heat, the rain that soaked the ground and broke the humidity had been a welcome relief. In the early morning hours, it was cool and fresh. “Your paper, sir,” Andrew, my houseman, said. I nodded and took my copy of the Toronto Star, looking down the street, pleased to see my car approaching. As usual, Frank was on time, a fraction early, actually—the same as me. The car rolled up to the curb, and the rear passenger door opened. Aiden Callaghan, my head of security and right hand, eased his massive form out of the seat, and waved his arm with a flourish. “Your ride, Eminence.” Ignoring his tone and usual jibe, I slid into the back seat, snapping on the seat belt. I unfolded the paper, the newsprint still crisp and unblemished. Often, if Aiden grabbed the paper before I did, it was creased and smeared, the edges dark with coffee stains or sticky from whatever donut he was shoving in his mouth at the time. The man was an endless pit, it seemed. “Mr. Tomlin’s office, sir?” “Yes, Frank.” I began to study the financial section, when Aiden’s finger bent over the top of the paper. “Not even a good morning, asshole? Thanks for being here so early? Nothing?” I rolled my eyes and snapped the paper back into place. “That’s what I pay you for.” There was silence. With a low groan, I folded the paper. “Good morning.”
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