Of course not.
The silence between them had become its own kind of problem—his last message to Viper still glaring up at him, a mistake he couldn’t take back.
He shut the screen before he could think about it. He’d been the one left in the desert—but Viper hadn’t wanted to leave him, had he?
“Take off your suits. Eat if you need to. Be ready by nine,” he growled, already moving down the hall.
He took his time in the shower, heat and steam stripping the day down to bone. Hair slicked back, movements precise, he dressed with crisp efficiency—shirt, tux jacket, cuff links clicking home.
The apartment filled with movement around him—Ocean arguing with Aspen about cologne, Syx grumbling about ties, Sage muttering cover details under his breath as he buttoned his shirt. It settled something in the space, a rhythm pulling them into their roles.
Titus reentered the room, slipping into his coat and buttoning the top button.
He crossed to the window—Riverside Park dipped into darkness, headlights streaking Uptown in thin golden lines. The city thrummed beneath them, humming with the kind of nightlife that cracked open doors to power and crime in the same breath.
The team emerged one by one, dressed like trouble in tailored suits.
God, he hoped this worked.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly. “Hale’s expecting a quiet night. We’ll give him something better.”
The elevator chimed again.
Vale stepped in at his side.
Syx fell in behind them.
YA fanned out with poised confidence.
Manhattan waited below—sharp, glittering, dangerous.
Titus walked into it like it belonged to him.
Aurelia breathed money.
Not the loud, flashy kind—the old-world kind wrapped in modern lacquer.
He rarely set foot on the main floor. Usually, he moved through the private lounge across from the offices, where the music stayed muted, and the crowd reduced to a distant vibration. Down here was another world—heat, sound, motion—alive in a way the upper level never pretended to be.
Bass rolled under marble like a heartbeat, crystal clinking through it. Not a club—a power nexus. Beautiful bodies slipped through the light, all sleek lines and ambition disguised as play.
At the center, the dance floor glowed—bodies moving in slow, practiced abandon. The beat was low and predatory, meant to loosen judgment. Gold and indigo light cut over sequins and skin, sweat and laughter, secrets whispered beneath the thrum.
He belonged here—always had. He wore this world like a second skin.
One of the doormen dipped his head. “Evening, sir.”
Titus tipped his in return.
The balcony curved above, an elegant sweep of smoked glass and brass rails. Private alcoves glowed with low amber light—places for deals, threats, whispered promises. Servers in black moved like shadows, weaving through the crowd with trays of aged scotch, rare bourbon, and glowing cocktails.
Syx leaned in behind him. “Your mark is already here.”
Titus murmured, still taking in the main floor, “He can wait.”
A woman waited at the entry, ready to take his coat when he slid it off his shoulders.
“Your table’s ready, Mr. Harrington,” she said.
