Marcus raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. I'm halfway to the back hallway when the front door opens. My spidey senses go on high alert. Wrong time. Wrong entrance. Wrong everything.
Three men walk in like they own the place, wearing designer overcoats, suits, expensive watches, the kind of polished menace that comes from having lawyers on speed dial and bodies in their wake. I recognize the one in front—Vincent Calabrese. Hollow Club enforcer. Works directly under the council, reports to no single family. He’s the kind of man who makes problems disappear and doesn't lose sleep over it. He's also got a reputation for enjoying his work too much.
"Blake Delano." Vincent smiles like we're old friends. We're not. “I heard you were back in town and thought I'd pay my respects."
“The club's closed." I don't move toward them or shift my stance. I just wait. "Come back at eight."
"I'm not here for drinks." His gaze slides past me to Peyton, and something cold moves through his expression. "I'm here for the girl."
Marcus stops wiping the bar. I hear the subtle click of him reaching for the weapon we keep under the counter.
"The girl has a name," Peyton says before I can respond. Her voice is steady, sharp. "And she's not interested in whatever you're selling."
Vincent's smile widens. "I like her. Spirited." He takes a step closer. "The HC has a business proposition for Ms. Quinn. We'd like to discuss her future in Wintervale. Professionally."
"She's not interested,” I reply coolly.
"I wasn't asking you." They take another step. His men flank out, blocking the exit. They do it in a professional, practiced way, the kind of formation that says they've done this before. "Ms. Quinn is a legal adult capable of making her own decisions. We're simply offering her options."
"Options." I let the word hang there, flat and dangerous. "That’s what you call it when you corner women in private clubs?"
"I call it a business meeting." Vincent's still smiling, but his eyes are cold. Dead. "One she'd be smart to take. There’s no need for us to beat around the bush. The Kingsley inheritance comes with complications. Enemies. Threats. The HC can offer her protection and legitimacy. All she has to do is sign a few papers, attend a few meetings, and vote the way sensible people vote."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then she'll learn that Wintervale can be very unforgiving to people who don't understand how things work." He looks at Peyton again, and this time there's something darker in his expression. Assessment. Appetite. "Especially beautiful women who think they can play games with men who've been playing them longer."
The temperature in the room drops. I feel it in my chest, that cold, focused clarity that comes right before violence. The same feeling I had in the rings, in the warehouse, or every time someone crossed a line I'd drawn in blood.
"Marcus," I say quietly. "Take Peyton upstairs."
"Blake—" Peyton starts.
"Now."
She doesn't move. So fucking stubborn. If she were mine, I’d fuck all of that free will right out of her.
If she was mine.
Fuck, I’m losing it.
Vincent laughs. "She doesn't take orders well, does she? That's going to be a problem. The HC prefers women who know their place."
"And where's that?" Peyton asks, voice dripping acid.
"Quiet. Compliant. Grateful." Vincent's smile turns ugly. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We can teach you."
That's the line.
I move before Vincent finishes the sentence, crossing the space between us in three strides, one hand fisting in his expensive suit, the other going for the pressure point at his throat. His men react, reaching for weapons they won't have time to draw.
"Touch her," I say quietly, my face inches from Vincent's, "and I'll bury you so deep even the HC won't find the pieces."
Vincent's eyes widen with surprise, then calculation, then fear. Good. He should be afraid.
"Blake." Marcus's voice carries a warning. "We've got company."
I glance toward the door. Two more men outside, watching through the window. They’re backup. Vincent came prepared.
