The Prince of Broadway
Dedication
For the girls who play hard
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Acknowledgments
Announcement
About the Author
By Joanna Shupe
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
The Bronze House
Broadway and Thirty-Third Street, NYC
1891
There was a special place in hell for men who attempted to cheat at cards.
Clayton Madden stood in a back room inside his casino, scowling at the man kneeling on the carpet. Tears and snot leaked all over the man’s face, his pleas for mercy echoing off the bare plaster walls. The words meant nothing to Clay. Cornered rats always begged for their lives when trapped. He’d seen it time and time again.
Clay had a reputation as unfeeling, a cold monster. And it was absolutely true. He’d long turned hard in the face of this world’s cruelty, growing up poor in a city that worshipped money and prestige over kindness and faith. Where graft, bribery and violence ruled. He’d learned . . . and thrived. Climbed up through the ranks of the criminal underworld until he’d accumulated enough power to wield it on his own behalf. Darkness had settled in his soul years before he’d opened the city’s poshest casino.
He loved the Bronze House. It was his pride and joy, the culmination of all his scraping and scrapping. The city’s richest and most privileged men came here nightly. Eager to wager large sums of money, which Clay was only too happy to pocket. Some men, however, thought they were smarter than Clay. That they could steal money from him and get away with it.
Clay hated those men worst of all.
They were dealt with swiftly, harshly. He let them live, of course—but just barely. Dead men could not spread tales to warn other potential cheaters that Madden’s casinos were off-limits. Not to mention killing men brought about questions Clay would rather not answer.
“P-please, Mr. Madden.” The man was trembling, his voice cracking. “Please don’t hurt me. I won’t ever come back, I swear.”
Same song, different rat. Did he really believe Clay was stupid enough to let him walk out, unharmed?
Clay shook his head. “You’re right. You won’t ever come back, not when I’m through with you.”
Sweat coated the man’s brow, his eyes growing impossibly wide. “No, please. I have a family—”
“What would you like to do?”
Clay turned to the source of the question. His assistant and longtime friend, Bald Jack, waited in the shadows. Jack was a former pugilist and a crack shot. He was also loyal, intelligent and good with people where Clay faltered. Clay trusted him with his life. “How much?” In Clay’s mind, everything was measured in terms of dollars and cents.
“One-twenty before we stopped him.”
Not an exorbitant amount, but it was the point of the matter. “The usual, then.”
“You got it. Want to talk to him first?” The edge of Jack’s mouth kicked up, as if he anticipated Clay’s answer.
“Yes, I do.” No cheater walked out of the Bronze House without a “talk” from Clay.
“Then, before you get blood on your suit, I should also tell you that she’s back.”
Clay’s spine straightened. Now Jack was telling him? Jesus. “How long?”
“Strolled in as we were bringing this piece of filth back here.”
Goddamn it. Why had she returned? He dragged a hand down his jaw. “Take care of this here,” he said and gestured to the man sobbing on his floor. “And don’t ruin my carpets.”
Jack jerked his chin toward the two staff members hovering nearby. “Take him to the meat shed,” he instructed the men. “I’ll deal with him in a moment.”
Clay left the room and hurried to the balcony, focused on her, already forgetting the past few minutes. All that mattered was getting to his hidden perch. He had to see her for himself.
She shouldn’t be here. Her family was one of great wealth and privilege. Old money and small minds. The kind of people Clay exploited for his own gain. Her father was legendary, a bombastic blowhard who rolled over anyone who dared to get in his way—including less fortunate families trying to eke out a modest living downtown.
What would her father think about his middle daughter’s late-night visits to the Bronze House? Clay almost wished he could tell him merely to witness the reaction.
Hard to say why Clay allowed her entry. After all, the Bronze House had strict rules for gaining entrance. Men of a certain class congregated here, men with deep pockets and little sense. Women were forbidden, per his explicit order. He didn’t even permit prostitutes here, as many casinos did.
Yet, she flouted his rules. On more than one occasion. Not only that; she also walked out a winner. Every time.
He admired that about her. And so, he tolerated her presence.
It was irresponsible of him—and Clay was nothing if not responsible. He prided himself on the solid judgment that had saved his life time and time again in a city full of danger and retribution. Those sharp instincts had helped him rise to the top of New York’s underbelly, the places catering to the voracious appetite for vice. And his current instinct screamed for him to kick her out.
He took the stairs to the balcony two at a time, his shoes slapping on the old wood. She was becoming a problem, one he needed to solve. Her attendance was disruptive. Not in a loud, destructive way, but nearly every man in her vicinity would leer at her or angle somehow for her favor. It was disgusting. Worse, if the men were leering and angling then they weren’t gambling. Another reason why women had no business inside these walls.
He reached the balcony and paused to take in the sprawling casino floor. Ah, glorious. His kingdom. The place was flooded with men in dark suits, oiled hair gleaming in the gaslight while they spent money on frivolous games they had no hope of winning. The sight never ceased to please him.
Except, this evening, it didn’t. Because she was here.
He spotted her right away. The light glinted off her blond hair and creamy skin. Full red lips revealed white teeth when she smiled or laughed, which was often. She was a lone beautiful flower in a field of dirt and sticks. Why in hell was she here, at his casino? What was her end game?
A nearby door closed and the soft thud of footsteps approached. Clay didn’t bother turning. Only one person dared to come up here.
“She’s alone again tonight,” Jack said. “Want me to show her out?”
“No,” he answered quickly. Too quickly.
Jack chuckled. “I see.”
Clay shot a menacing look over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be dealing with our other problem?”
“The boys’ll handle him, don’t worry. I thought you might need help with her.”
“I don’t need help. I need her to stop distracting my patrons. They’re ogling
her instead of losing money.”
Jack eased toward the railing and peered down. “Can’t blame them. She’s a pretty one.”
Pretty? No. Pretty was too tame a word to describe her. Too superficial. Birds were pretty. A shiny gold piece, the sky at dusk. A royal flush. Those things were pretty.
She was radiant. A feast for the eyes. With a gaze that sparkled with mischief. A sly smile with hidden secrets. She was sunshine in a stormy sky. Warmth and light in the midst of the very worst element. Namely, him.
“I can blame them,” Clay growled. “It’s as if they haven’t seen a woman before. She’s nothing special.”
Jack remained quiet, the word liar hanging between them in the shadows. Lucky for Clay, Jack didn’t bother to say it aloud. Instead, his friend said, “Do you plan to stand up here and loom over her all night like a specter? Or should I bring her to your office?”
“And why would I meet with her?”
“To find out why she keeps comin’ back.”
“I assume it’s because she continues to win. Have we spoken to the staff? I want her to lose money, not gain it.”
“What happened to ‘the house has no need to cheat because the house always wins in the end’?”
“The house is clearly failing when it comes to her.”
Jack paused. “I’ll speak to them.”
“Good.”
“I suppose that means you’ll continue to admit her.”
“I haven’t decided.” It was untrue and they both knew it. She had intrigued him . . . and he was not a man easily intrigued.
You’re acting like a fool. Just tell her not to come back.
Not yet. He needed insight into her actions. This was her third night visiting the Bronze House in ten days, and the house’s take on those three evenings had dipped significantly. How long could this go on before her presence ruined his business?
Jack was right. It was past time to find out what she was up to. “Fine, bring her to my office.”
“Finally,” Jack said. “Now maybe you’ll stop making everyone miserable around here.”
“I’m the owner,” he snarled. “Anyone who is unhappy with me may find employment elsewhere—and that goes for my second-in-command, as well.”
Not bothering to smother his laugh, Jack walked away. The sound grated over Clay’s nerves, but instead of lashing out, he kept his gaze trained on the woman below. He’d noticed she liked roulette and mostly bet on red. Funny color, red. Brought to mind hearts and flowers, flesh and blood. He preferred black, like mud and coal. Rot and ruin. Like the stain on his soul.
Had she any idea of his history with her father?
He doubted it. If she had, she’d stay very far from the likes of Clayton Madden.
The crowd soon parted to make way for Jack’s hulking form. She looked up from her chips, a flash of annoyance on her face before she masked it with politeness. Jack said a few words and, without missing a beat, her head swung toward the balcony, eyes locking with Clay’s. He sucked in a breath, the impact of her greenish-brown irises like a blow. A ridiculous reaction, he chided himself. She couldn’t see him, not where he stood in the shadows.
Even still, he took a step back then turned on his heel.
He gave himself a mental shake. He would not be cowed by her. No one, man or woman, had ever gained the upper hand with Clay. A beautiful uptown debutante certainly wouldn’t be the first to succeed.
It was past time to put Florence Greene in her place.
Finally, Florence had gained Mr. Madden’s attention.
She followed Jack, the casino’s manager, deeper into the darkened corridors, anticipation crawling through her veins. She hadn’t come to the Bronze House to win money, though she’d done that quite handily.
No, she’d come here to learn.
Not the games, of course. Those she knew. Nor had she wanted to observe how a casino operated. Rather, she’d wanted to observe how the city’s best casino operated. From one man, the casino’s enigmatic owner, Clayton Madden.
Anyone who’d played a hand of cards or thrown a pair of dice in this town knew his name. Madden owned poolrooms, policy shops, craps games . . . He was the ruler of all gambling activity in town. It was said that everything he touched turned to gold, an empire that neither the police nor Tammany Hall could topple.
The Bronze House, however, had turned Madden into a legend.
Renowned as the most exclusive and fairest of all the casinos, the Bronze House was where the elites went to drink champagne, eat caviar and gamble. All the games were aboveboard, the dealers too well compensated to skim. Madden treated his staff and patrons well—unless they double-crossed him. Those who dared to work against Madden’s interests were dealt with swiftly, irrevocably. In manners so horrific they were merely whispered about. Florence had heard stories about bones broken, houses burned. One enemy had supposedly been weighted down with cement and chains, and then dropped into the East River.
As a woman, she’d known her presence here would attract attention. Had planned for it. Embraced it. Part of her had expected to be tossed out within moments of arriving. Yet, she’d been allowed to stay. More than once.
And he’d watched her.
Somehow, she had sensed him up there, in the dark balcony, staring down at her, despite not knowing what he actually looked like. Not many did, apparently, as he never left his club unless absolutely necessary. While the casino operated, he remained in the shadows and Jack handled the problems on the floor.
Now Madden wished to meet her. Even though this was what she needed, Florence had to admit it terrified her.
Daddy liked to tell all three Greene sisters, Show no fear. Men are afraid of women they cannot intimidate. So she stood a little taller and pressed her shoulders back. She would face him bravely or not at all.
A large wooden door with a single brass plate loomed at the end of the corridor. Embossed on the plate, bold lettering read Do Not Enter. She suppressed a shiver. No fear.
Jack stopped and turned. The smooth, dark skin of his forehead creased slightly as he studied her. “Do you scare easily, Miss Greene?”
“Certainly not.” At least, she was trying to appear that way.
A slow smile spread across Jack’s face. “Yes, indeed. You might be just what we need around here.” Before she could ask what he meant, he threw open the door and swept his arm out in a courtly gesture. “After you.”
Playing along, Florence gave a royal dip of her chin. “Thank you, sir.”
The room was brightly lit, a cheerful fire crackling in the grate. Eastern rugs covered the floors, and dark wainscoting adorned the walls. A large desk sat at one end, two small armchairs opposite. It was a cozy space, one well used.
And it was empty.
She glanced over her shoulder at Jack. “Is he . . . ?”
“He’ll be along shortly, miss. Just wait here.” Jack gave her a brief nod and departed, leaving her alone in Clayton Madden’s office.
His office.
So this was where he oversaw his gambling syndicate. She would have thought it more . . . decadent. After all, he was one of the richest and most powerful men in the city. Yet, this was a simple space, not one designed to show off his considerable wealth. What a fascinating contradiction.
Papers were neatly stacked on his desk. She longed to flip through them, discover what matters awaited his attention. Credit he’d extended to patrons come due? Bills from his champagne and caviar suppliers? Reports on dealers and club operation?
Her mind whirled with possibilities, her heart full of giddy envy. Someday. Someday you’ll have an office just like this.
The door behind her opened and she spun toward it. A large man stood in the doorway, his wide shoulders taking up nearly the width of the entry. He was dressed entirely in black with no hint of color anywhere on him. Not a collar stud or silver button in sight. Dark hair framed his face, the strands a bit longer than the current style, and two scars marred his skin: one
through his eyebrow and the other along his chin.
He was not conventionally pretty, like the society swells who slept all day and caroused at night. No, this man was handsome, but in a rough-and-tumble, unforgiving way. He oozed confidence, as if he never failed, never let anyone tell him what to do. A warrior, scarred from years of battle, someone who’d built a kingdom with his two bare hands.
She wished that didn’t appeal to her, that she didn’t feel a strange pull in the pit of her stomach . . . but she did. It wasn’t every day she encountered a man so dangerous and shrewd, interesting and complex.
She met his gaze and it was clear he was not-so-patiently waiting for her to finish her assessment of him. Had she been staring too long? Clasping her hands, she wiped any hint of expression off her face. Don’t react. Give him nothing. After all, she’d perfected a blank look over the years, thanks to hiding her misadventures from her parents. It worked every time.
Madden’s lips quirked as if he instantly saw through her ruse. Impossible. She’d perfected that blank stare at each ball, dinner party and social gathering since the age of eighteen. No one had ever suspected otherwise.
“Miss Greene.” He stepped forward and closed the door behind him. Trepidation slid along her spine, a cold chill of warning. She was alone with him, a man reportedly no stranger to violence.
He wouldn’t be stupid enough to hurt Duncan Greene’s daughter. Would he?
Florence didn’t care for being afraid. She lived her life boldly, outside the lines of what society considered normal female behavior. Tea parties and sewing circles were not for her. She had more exciting plans in her future. Dice and roulette wheels. Cards and craps games. Fear was some other woman’s problem.
She lifted her chin. “I presume you are Mr. Madden.”
“Have a seat.” Now behind his desk, he indicated one of the armchairs.
“Not until you answer my question.”
He paused and stared at her just long enough to make her uncomfortable. His eyes were dark and unfathomable, no hint to his thoughts whatsoever. “Was there a question, Miss Greene? Because I didn’t hear one.”
“Are you Mr. Madden?”