“Wait, which Beta?”
I twist back to look down at Oliver, who’s gaze has dropped to my cock before raising to my face again. He has absolutely no shame. “You know very well if I tried something like that with Lorenzo, he would hand my ass to me.Youcan go shower with Zo. I’ve got Wilson.”
I leave just as I hear Oliver mentioning he’d love to watch Lorenzo have my ass. Yeah, that’s not happening. Ever.
34
34 - Lorenzo
Three days of Oliver's heat meant three days of Margaux's emails stacking up unanswered in my inbox. I came back to eleven messages, each one a move in a chess game she'd been playing without me while I was locked in a nest with my pack. The final draft sat waiting in the sixth email, sent at 2 AM on the second night, with a note that read:Take your time. This one's already won.
I open the attachment, fourteen pages of legal language I've been reading in various drafts for the past six weeks. This version carries Marcus Voss' signature on the final page in ink that probably cost more than our monthly liquor order.
My fingers trace over the terms as I scroll through the document. Pre-inflation rates restored. The thirty-two percent increase eliminated. Common area maintenance fees Voss invented struck completely. The boardwalk improvementassessment removed with a clause preventing its reinstatement. The lease locks for five years at a rate twelve percent below what we paid before Voss decided a Beta-Omega club should vanish from his waterfront.
I read the signature three times, feeling the weight of each curve and stroke. The best part is that it’s over. As much as it can be until he tries something else but I don’t think he will. Marcus isn’t stupid and now that we have a full pack, even if those assholes try to defer to Nicholas, I won’t lose my club.
Because Nicholas understands what Vice & Virtue means to me and to Oliver and now to him and Wilson. The moment I mentioned it during breakfast, Oliver suggested cake and a party. I vetoed both. Nicholas suggested just cake and Wilson mumbled that whatever Oliver wanted was good enough.
Which means that at some point, there will be cake and a party and glitter.
Revenue has climbed in the past few days, what with excellent staff but also no dark cloud hanging over us and unnecessary bills finally wiped out. Gone are the nights I spent at 2 AM hunched over a salvaged door balanced on filing cabinets, desperately recalculating projections. Nicholas provided the investment that stabilized our foundation. Luca's statement washed away the reputational damage. Margaux dismantled Voss' leverage piece by piece until the man who owns half the boardwalk calculated the cost and surrendered.
And now, the only thing I have to do is continue to flourish in this space with my pack. I peek out of the office onto the main floor, smiling as staff eagerly set up for the evening. Oliver is being a complete asshole as he flits around the room, burning off excess energy. Wilson is crowding Nicholas’ space, a welcome sight from several weeks ago, Nicholas gently pressing small kisses to the healing bite on our Beta’s lip.
Dante, one of the security guards, walks up to me, his fingers gripping his walkie talkie just a little too tight. "Lorenzo, there's a car idling in the east lot. Black sedan. Been sitting there about twelve minutes."
I press the talk button. "Plates?"
"Running them now. I didn’t want to bother Nicholas but—"
I glance over to where my two men were sharing a moment, Wilson now helping with some of the tables and Nicholas inches from my side. He has his phone out, swiping through apps until he pulls up the security camera facing the parking lot. “Sebastian’s not stupid enough to…” His words trail off as he enlarges one of the screens. “Fuck, yeah he is.”
The black sedan sits in the third row, engine running, driver's side window cracked. I don't need the plates. Nicholas's jaw has already told me everything.
"That's within the perimeter," I push out, hating that Sebastian still thinks he has a chance. He only resurfaced because his brother has Wilson but there’s no way he can win. He was served papers. I’m not even sure why he’s trying unless he’s that thick skulled.
"By about two hundred feet." Nicholas's voice is low, controlled in the way that means he's calculating rather than reacting. "I’ll shoot Margaux a message. She needs the timestamp and the footage."
Dante sighs. “I’ve already called the police, too.”
Wilson's phone buzzes on the bar beside the register tape. The screen lights with a number, no name attached, but I recognize the last four digits from the texts Wilson showed Nicholas two weeks ago. The ones Wilson never answered. The phone buzzes again, then rings.
Fucker.
I pick it up and accept the call.
"Wilson." The voice on the other end is smooth, unhurried, the kind of warmth that costs nothing to produce and means even less. "I think we should talk. This restraining order business is ridiculous. You know that. I just want five minutes — you and me, like adults."
My silence lasts long enough for Sebastian's breath to shift on the other end. He knows.
"You're currently sitting in a parking lot two hundred feet from a building you've been legally ordered to stay five hundred feet from." My voice drops to the register I save for people who have miscalculated badly. "You're on camera. The footage is timestamped. Our attorney has it. If your car is still in that lot when I finish this sentence, the next call you receive will be from the police, and the one after that will be from a judge who already granted this order on first review."
The line holds for three seconds.
"Lorenzo." Sebastian's voice has lost exactly none of its polish, which tells me everything about the man Wilson survived. "You're making a mistake. I'm his—"
"You're nothing." I end the call.
