“Dean,” he says, almost conversational. “You’ve been circling our little world for years. Profits. Properties. Clubs. You like to dip your hand in but never get it dirty.”
My lip curls. “I build. I don’t play games.”
He chuckles, low and sharp. “Everything is a game. You just haven’t been playing ours.”
The silence stretches, thick as tar. My pulse ticks hard in my throat, but I keep my voice even, clipped. “If you called me here to stroke your ego, you’ve wasted both our time.”
That earns me a slow smile. Not a friendly one. One of the men flanking him steps forward, placing a small black folder on the table. Leather. Worn. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach clench.
“Go on.” The man gestures as if he’s offering me dessert.
I don’t want to. Every instinct screams that I shouldn’t. But my hand moves anyway, dragging the folder toward me. I open it.
Inside—photographs.
Documents.
Transactions I thought were buried ten feet deep.
My throat goes dry.
He knows.
The bastard knows.
I close the folder slowly, deliberately, keeping my face unreadable even as the floor tilts beneath me. “You’ve been digging.”
“Not digging. Watching,” he corrects softly. “Always watching.”
James looks like he might throw up, and it takes everything I have not to turn and gut him right there.
The man leans back in his chair, steeling his fingers. “You’re good, Dean. Smart. Ruthless. But you’ve forgotten something important.” He tilts his head. “Nobody climbs alone.”
The words hang there, heavy as a noose.
For the first time in years, I feel caged.
The walls of Club Z close in.
And I know with brutal clarity—I’ve just been marked.
My fingers drum against the folder, a deliberate show of composure when every nerve inside me wants to snap.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble,” I say finally, my tone flat. “But you should’ve saved yourself the time. I don’t respond well to threats.”
The man smiles. Not the wide grin of someone amused, but the patient curve of a predator who’s already sunk his teeth in. “Dean, if I wanted to threaten you, you wouldn’t be sitting at this table. This isn’t about intimidation—it’s about opportunity.”
“Funny,” I drawl. “Opportunities usually don’t come wrapped in blackmail.”
One of his men chuckles darkly. The sound rattles in my bones.
James shifts beside me again. I can feel his panic radiating like heat, the sweat rolling down his temples, and it makes my jaw ache. I don’t look at him. Not yet.
The man—Rafe, I remember now, a name whispered in certain circles with just enough venom to mean trouble—leans forward. “You’ve built something respectable. You’ve kept your hands clean. Admirable, really. But tell me…” His voice softens. “Has it satisfied you? To be half-in, half-out? To watch the world burn from the edge instead of lighting the match yourself?”
My silence is answer enough.
He pushes the folder back toward me, his gaze locking onto mine like a vice. “I don’t want to destroy you, Dean. If I did, you’d already be rubble. I want you in. With us. Full stop.”
