“What changed recently?” I ask.
Ryan’s smile widens slightly, like I’ve asked exactly the right question. His thumb traces his bottom lip again in that deliberate way. “Gambling debts. Substantial ones. He’s been playing in the high-stakes poker games at Devon McCoy’s back rooms. Lost big. Kept playing trying to win it back. You know how that story goes.”
Oh.
Oh.
The pieces click together with sudden, sharp clarity. Devon McCoy’s aggressive behavior during our meeting—the inappropriate touching, the crude suggestions about me working in his clubs. I’d thought it was just him being a entitled asshole. But what if it was more than that? What if he was nervous, trying to establish dominance and distract from the fact that one of his poker games was bleeding money from our operations?
“Devon McCoy,” I say slowly. “His poker games are where Martin Chen racked up these debts?”
“Confirmed,” Ryan says, and now he’s definitely watching my mouth as I process this. “Chen’s been a regular for the past six months. Started small, escalated quickly. McCoy’s house takes a percentage, but he also extends credit to keep players at the table. Chen owes McCoy approximately fifty thousand on top of what he’s stolen from us.”
Jace’s hand has gone very still on my thigh. When I glance at him, his expression is professionally neutral, but I can see the calculation in his eyes. He’s putting together the same pieces I am.
“That explains McCoy’s behavior during our meeting,” I say carefully, looking at Charles. “He was nervous. Trying to distract us from looking too closely at his operations.”
Charles’s expression hardens. “What behavior?”
I hesitate, but Sienna’s already told him—I know she has. No point in pretending otherwise. “Devon McCoy touched me inappropriately during our meeting last week. Made suggestions about me working in his clubs. Silas...corrected the behavior.”
“By stabbing him through the hand with a letter opener,” Charles says, and there’s something almost amused in his tone. “Yes, Sienna mentioned that. Thank you for being honest about it.”
He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “For the record, I’ve already spoken with Devon about his behavior. Silas was well within his rights as head of security and the organization’s enforcer to correct the situation as he saw fit. Devon understands that touching you has consequences. But now, knowing about the gambling debts, his behavior makes more sense. He was trying to establish dominance and deflect attention.”
“Two birds, one knife,” Jace mutters beside me, and despite everything, I have to suppress a smile.
“Confirmed?” Charles asks Tom.
“Security footage shows Martin Chen in the Dent offices after hours. Multiple instances over the past two months. We’re ninety-five percent certain it’s him.”
Charles nods slowly, his expression hardening into something I recognize from childhood—the Carter mask, emotionless and absolute. “Forward all intelligence to Silas Vale. He’ll confirm and carry out punishment as needed. And have him look into Devon McCoy’s poker operations. If he’s extending credit that’s causing our people to steal from us, that’s a problem that needs addressing.”
The words land like stones in still water. Punishment. Which in Dominic’s organization—in our organization now, whether I like it or not—could mean anything from breaking fingers to making someone disappear entirely.
I want to argue. Want to say that maybe there’s another way to handle this. But Martin Chen made his choice. He stole from us to fund a gambling habit, putting his personal problems ahead of his obligations. In this world, that kind of weakness gets people killed.
And Devon McCoy... well, maybe having Silas pay him another visit isn’t the worst idea. He needs to understand that his operations can’t bleed into ours.
Jace’s eyes meet mine across the table, and I see the conflict there—the man who understands why I’m biting my tongue, who agrees with me in principle but knows the reality we’re dealing with.
“Moving on,” Charles says, and I force myself to focus as he runs through other business—shipment schedules, territory disputes, the usual operational shit that makes my degree in market research feel simultaneously relevant and completely useless.
Ryan’s attention drifts back to me periodically throughout the meeting. Not constantly—he’s too smart for that. But often enough that I’m aware of it. His eyes on my throat when I turn to speak to Jace. On my hands when I gesture. On my mouth when I respond to Charles’s questions.
And each time, Jace’s hand tightens slightly on my thigh. A silent claiming. A reminder that I’m his. Theirs.
When the meeting finally winds down, Ryan catches my attention as people start gathering their tablets and phones.
“Parker, I wanted to ask—are you planning on attending the annual gala this weekend?”
I blink, thrown by the shift from embezzlement and gambling debts to social events. “This weekend?” I glance at Charles. “You didn’t mention?—”
“Shit, I forgot to tell you.” Charles has the decency to look sheepish. “The annual Children’s Hospital benefit gala. It’s Saturday night at the Ritz-Carlton. Black tie. All the major families attend—it’s basically the social event of the season where everyone shows up to write big checks and pretend we’re philanthropists instead of criminals.”
The Children’s Hospital gala. Right. The one event Dominic never missed because it made him look respectable, generous, like a pillar of the community instead of a man who built his empire on violence and fear. Every major organized crime family in the region attends, writing six-figure checks to ease their consciences and maintain the illusion of legitimacy.
“You should come,” Ryan says, and his voice has dropped slightly—intimate, like we’re the only two people in the room. His eyes are on my lips again. “We could go together. Make an appearance, represent the younger generation of leadership.”
