The search term is simple: Vice & Virtue. The alert usually pulls up review sites and social media posts from customers who photograph their drinks more than they drink them. This one pulls up a business journal piece from a local publication with enough readership to do damage.
The headline puts Wilson’s name next to Hearthstone in a sentence designed to make my stomach turn. The word “complicit” appears in the second paragraph. “Trafficking” in the fourth. The article frames Wilson as a participant in the organization’s operations, a staff member who facilitated the system rather than fought against it. There are no direct accusations, nothing actionable, just enough implicationthreaded through careful language that any reader would walk away with a clear picture of who they’re supposed to blame.
Shit.
I immediately call Nicholas and the Alpha picks up on the first ring. I can hear in his voice that he’s already seen it before I get through the first sentence.
“My attorney is drafting a response. She flagged the article twenty minutes ago.” His tone carries the controlled flatness he’s used in meetings. “The sourcing is thin. Most of it is public record from the federal investigation, repackaged with editorial framing. There’s nothing in there that names Wilson as running the operation, but the implication is structured to read that way.”
“Who leaked it?”
“Working on that. The publication isn’t top-tier, but it has distribution in the local business community. Every Alpha on the boardwalk will have read it by morning.”
“Voss?”
Nicholas pauses. “The publication has run favorable pieces on boardwalk development before. The editor has ties to the merchants’ association.”
My pen cracks in my grip. I set both pieces on the bar and press my palms flat against the wood. “How fast can your attorney move?”
“Cease and desist by tomorrow. Formal rebuttal to the publication by end of week. But Lorenzo, the damage isn’t legal. It’s reputational. Wilson’s name is in print next to words that will make people afraid to be associated with him.”
I say, “I know.”
“And with us.”
“I know that too.”
When the call ends, I set my phone face-down on the bar and stare at the wood for thirty seconds, running the calculations.That article changes the shape of the fight. Voss has been playing the financial game but this is a different weapon. This goes after the people inside the building instead of the building itself.
After the people that I love.
I dial Oliver’s number and read the relevant paragraphs aloud, keeping my voice level, letting the words do their own damage without commentary. On the other end, the silence stretches past the point where I expect an explosion, past the point where I expect tears, into a territory that makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Oliver?”
“I’m here.” His voice is flat, stripped of every ounce of brightness I know. “Don’t tell Wilson yet. Let me think.”
“I was going to wait until after close.”
“Good.” The line clicks off. The problem is that this kind of city talks and there’s no doubt in my mind Wilson will find out before the night is over. However, some selfish part of me wants to see my Beta smile a few more times before everything starts falling apart.
The club fills with Friday's crowd, their voices rising above the music as they loosen their wallets along with their inhibitions. From my position at the bar, I watch Wilson move through the space with practiced ease, unaware that his name is traveling through business circles alongside accusations that would break him.
The plan to wait and tell him after close lasts precisely two hours and fourteen minutes.
Doug settles onto his usual barstool beside his wife, already halfway through his first bourbon of two. Every Friday he occupies the same spot, leaves the same fifteen percent tip, and speaks with the dangerous confidence of someone who believes their words leave no impact.
"Hey, did you guys see that article about the Omega trafficking place? Hearthstone?" Doug leans toward his wife, but projects his voice as if addressing the entire bar. "Apparently one of the guys who worked there is at some club around here. Can you imagine? Working at a place like that and then just showing up somewhere else like nothing happened?"
Wilson is standing three feet away behind the bar, fingers wrapped around a lime for the garnish tray. Color drains from his forehead first, then seeps from his cheeks, his jaw, and then his throat in a visible wave. His eyes widen, contract, then widen again as understanding blooms across his features.
Doug continues speaking while his wife nods along, sipping her cocktail and murmuring something about accountability.Shit.
Nicholas reaches Wilson before I cross half the distance, cutting through the crowd. His hand lands on Wilson's shoulder, turning him until Wilson's face presses against Nicholas' chest. Wilson's fists clench in the front of Nicholas's shirt while the Alpha's arms close around his body, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed flat against his lower back.
Silence hangs between them as Nicholas stands at the bar, his body a shield between Wilson and the room. The amber of his scent sharpens in the air, cutting through the club's noise and wrapping around Wilson in a barrier I can smell from where I stand. His fingers thread through Wilson's curls, his thumb moving in a slow pass against Wilson's scalp.
The club seems to pause around them. Doug's mouth hangs open, silent now. His wife holds her cocktail suspended halfway to her lips. The bartender stares openly while customers at nearby tables turn to watch the scene unfold.
