Yes. I have to start somewhere, right?
Your honesty is brutal.
I smile despite myself, despite everything.
I've requested everyone to leave. Now do what your husband says.
I watch through the camera as she glances around the terrace, confirming that the staff has cleared out as I promised. Then, with movements that carry both hesitation and defiance, she unbuttons my shirt and lets it fall to the ground at her feet.
She is bare beneath it, all soft curves and sun-kissed skin and the faint pink marks my mouth left on her inner thighs last night. I watch her settle onto the sunning mat, her body stretched outbeside the infinity pool like an offering to the gods, and my hand moves to my belt before I consciously decide to unbuckle it.
I activate the video call and watch her eyes widen as my face appears on her phone screen, followed by the view of my hand wrapped around my cock in my darkened office.
"I want to watch you touch yourself," I say, my voice rough with need. "Show me how you like it, little dove. Let me see what makes you fall apart."
The flush that spreads across her cheeks is visible even through the phone's camera, but she does not look away. Instead, her hand drifts down her stomach with agonizing slowness, her fingers finding the wet heat between her thighs while I stroke myself in time with her movements.
We build together, her soft moans and my harsh breathing creating a symphony of need that transcends the distance between us. I watch her back arch off the mat, watch her free hand grip the fabric beneath her as the pleasure builds, watch her lips form my name in a soundless cry as she tips over the edge and takes me with her.
"Stay there," I manage, my voice wrecked and breathless. "I am on my way up."
I clean myself with efficient movements and straighten my clothing, fully intending to join my wife on that rooftop and spend the rest of the afternoon showing her exactly how much I want her.
But when I step into the hallway, Massimo is waiting with an expression that tells me my plans are about to be made for me.
"Genesis responded," he says without preamble. "They are ready for us on the dark floor. Fiore is already there."
I pause mid-stride, surprise flickering through me before I can mask it. "That was fast. I was expecting it to take longer."
Massimo grunts his agreement. "So was I. Harlon didn’t sound happy about any of this."
I shrug. “Doesn’t change the fact that I have Persia’s willing signature and Magnus does not.”
“Do I confirm? Wouldn’t look good if we ask for an extension for no good reason.”
Massimo is right. Genesis operates on their timeline, not mine, even if I did request the meeting. I don’t want to send the wrong message to the men who hold the contracts of the underworld in their capable hands.
I take out my phone and type a message to Persia.
Something came up. I will be back soon.
Then I follow Massimo to the elevator, leaving my wife naked and waiting on a rooftop while I go to war with her father.
It takes us half an hour to get to Club Genesis.
I have to laugh, because the place has a villains-are-us vibe. It occupies a five story exposed brick building in the heart of Chicago's wealthy district. Its exterior screams wealth and elegance as much as the interior does with its white marble floors and red leather furniture. It has a kind of old-money elegance that speaks of power accumulated over generations.
Club rules are enforced at the door and we are relieved of any weapons. Harlon hates cleaning up blood and I frankly can’t blame the man. Criminals are a ruthless bunch of bloodthirsty fuckers.
Massimo and I are escorted three levels up to the dark floor where contracts and deals are made. The man leading us has dead eyes and a gun poorly concealed beneath his jacket. He’s a Genesis runner. As I understand it, he’s one of the many employed by Genesis who sees to it that contracts are enforced or you turn up dead for his bosses.
The runner leads us through corridors that grow progressively more secure until we reach a room that exists outside the normal rules of civilization.
Harlon Constantine sits at the head of a long mahogany table, his dark hair swept back from a face that has negotiated peace treaties and death warrants with equal composure. I know because I was a part of them.
Flanking him are Cassius with his deceptively easy smile and Santi with his sharp jaw and sharper instincts. The three of them form a tribunal that has destroyed empires and built new ones from the ashes.
I know this too, because Redthorn is one such empire.
