Which technically I don’t.
Not yet.
The walk feels endless. When the doors leading to the private offices open, the air shifts—thicker, darker, colder.
Luc Batiste is already there.
I don’t allow my stare to linger because if I do, I might do something dumb.
Like think about how I spent the better part of the other night fucking his only daughter.
And the last thing I need is to get a boner in here.
Angel Fury is beside him.
Nico Fury is center stage. And beside him, lounging with that lazy predator grace, is Adrik Volkov.
Three of the most dangerous men in the tri-state area.
And I’m about to tell them their men can’t control themselves.
“Stavros.” Nico’s voice is calm and measured.
He gestures to a chair opposite them.
“Gentlemen,” I say.
“Why don’t you start by explaining what the fuck happened with the dockworker?”
I don’t sit right away. I look at each of them, one by one, before lowering myself into the seat.
“Sure,” I say easily. “Your men are sloppy. Remy should have told you I don’t work well with men who forget the meaning of respect.”
Angel’s eyebrow shoots up. “Excuse me?”
“Your dockworker tried to force his attentions on a woman after hours.” I lean forward, eyes locked on Luc. “Your daughter, to be exact.”
Silence.
Then, the whole room seems to erupt.
“What the fuck?” Angel bolts upright, palms slamming against the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. “Are you telling me some idiot put his hands on my niece?”
Luc’s face goes blank in that way only men trained to hide fury can manage. His knuckles are white on the armrest.
“Where is he now?”
I shrug one shoulder, lazy.
“Handled.”
Angel narrows his eyes.
“Handled how?”
I smile, but there’s no humor in it.
“He won’t be bothering anyone again.”
