“Keep the upstairs clear for later,” he said, stepping farther inside.
“Yes, sir.”
Eyes followed—curious, assessing, hungry.
Vale and Syx flanked him.
Titus moved through them with effortless precision—tailored Zegna, old-money lines, and a calm that made people step aside without knowing why.
Their table sat on a raised platform overlooking the floor—privacy without distance. Vale took the seat to Titus’s right, Syx to his left, both settling like men who owned the ground beneath them.
A server drifted over, all soft curves and practiced charm. “Can I start you with something?”
“Sparkling water,” Vale said, not looking up from the room.
Syx leaned back, a slow grin ghosting his mouth. “Whatever you recommend,” he told her, voice low. “Surprise me.”
She blinked—flustered, but recovering fast—then smiled.
Vale finally cut his eyes toward Syx, then up at her. “You can do better than him, honey.”
She laughed—bright and unguarded—before catching herself. “I’ll be back, sirs.”
Titus didn’t comment. Vale and Syx flirting with staff was practically a tax write-off—predictable, irritatingly effective, and useful for keeping eyes off Titus.
Movement at the far side of the room caught his attention.
Sage, Ocean, and Aspen had arrived.
They stood near the entrance like they belonged on a magazine cover—three young executives in Zegna and TomFord, all clean lines and expensive watches. Sage grinned outright, the cocky bastard. Ocean flipped dark curls off his forehead, poised as ever, while Aspen scanned the room with quiet precision, man-bun neat, posture flawless.
They claimed a corner and owned it—shots ordered, laughter spilling, the three of them bright enough to draw eyes from every direction. Visible. Beautiful. Untouchable.
It didn’t take long before a crowd gathered.
Titus angled his glass, catching the reflection of their table in the mirror behind the bar.
Waiting. Watching.
His eyes met Clifford Hale’s across a short distance—the surprise, the sudden flicker of pain.
Titus gave a slight, knowing smile. Hale said something to the people beside him, then crossed the room with quiet purpose—two bodyguards shadowing him, armed if the bulges in their jackets were correct.
“Titus?” Hale said, uncertainty flickering in his eyes—it had always been difficult to tell the triplets apart.
Titus set his glass down.
Syx and Vale moved before he did—both sliding out of the booth in one fluid, silent motion. One stepped to his left, the other to his right. No posturing, no crowding. Just presence. Just protection.
Hale didn’t blink.
Of course, he didn’t.
He recognized bodyguards the way sharks recognized blood in the water—instantly, without ceremony. His gaze swept Syx and Vale in a single efficient pass. No curiosity. No challenge. Just an assessment, filed neatly away.
“Titus,” Hale said again, more certain this time. His voice even, measured—a man who knew power never needed to be loud. “It’s been years.”
Titus gave a faint incline of his head. “Hale. Yes, it has.”
