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“You’ve missed my pussy, haven’t you?” she pants. “Are you remembering how tight I am? How I used to squeeze your cock when you were about to come? And how I’d let you fuck me anywhere?”

She pulls her arousal-coated fingers from her pussy and drags them lower. Pressing them against the tight pucker of her asshole, she rubs slick digits around the rim in slow, teasing circles, leaving a glistening trail in their wake.

“Or is that look for my tight little ass?” Her mouth falls open with a silent moan as she eases a finger into the taut hole. “You always did love fucking my ass, Vance. You loved how I begged for it. How I took everything you gave me and asked for more.”

I divert my gaze, my thoughts on the future I’m trying to build while this woman incessantly tries to burn it down. “I’m married,” I grit out with finality. “We’re not doing this anymore, Melanie. I thought I made that crystal fucking clear when I showed you to the door earlier.”

“You didn’t mean it, baby.”

“Every fucking word,” I snarl. “This”—I gesture broadly at the display—“is pathetic and fucking desperate.”

Her hand stills between her legs, her expression shifting from seductive to furious in an instant. She sits up, pulling her skirt down with an angry jerk as her eyes flash with genuine rage. “You think you can just throw me away?” she snaps, her voice rising, losing its faux sultriness. She stands, advancing on me, her face twisted with anger and an something that looks dangerously like obsession. “Like I’m garbage? Like I’m some whore you paid for, and now you’re done with? I was here before her, Vance. I was here when you needed someone to take the edge off, when you needed a warm body that didn’t ask for anything more. I was good enough for you then. I was good enough to fuck on your desk, in your car, and in every hotel in Chicago.”

“She’s my wife,” I growl. “And you were a convenience. A warm body, like you said. Three eager holes for my cock. Nothing more.”

There isn’t an ounce of lie in my words. Not about Melanie or any of the women who came before Sophia. They were distractions, arrangements, moments I never carried with me after I walked out the door. None of them ever mattered. None of them ever had a place in my life beyond what I wanted from them in the moment.

“I have a meeting,” I say, heading for the door. “Stay if you want, finish what you started, but don’t make a mess of my new couch. Sophia picked it out.”

Without giving her another second of my time, I storm from my office and straight to the elevator. It takes me to the parking garage, and I make it halfway to my car before I realize I never grabbed my phone.

“Fuck,” I breathe, stopping in the middle of the concrete aisle.

Standing there for a long moment, I stare back toward the elevator before turning to my car. I don’t need my phone badly enough to deal with Melanie again tonight.

I race across town to the warehouse district. This late at night, it’s practically desolate. I pull up to the address—a nondescript brick building with a loading dock and a lone bulb burning over a metal door—and park beside my brothers’ vehicles.

I stride toward the door, my coat billowing behind me as my mind shifts into a different gear. This isn’t corporate negotiation. This is the other side of the Ashford empire—the side that gave Roman a foundation to build a legitimate business. The side that sometimes requires persuasion of a more physical nature.

I open the door to find Kaden on the other side. Dressed in a leather jacket over a hoodie, he’s a sharp contrast to my tailored suit. “About fucking time,” he huffs. “They’re getting antsy.”

“Traffic,” I lie.

Inside, the warehouse is cavernous, empty except for a few folding chairs arranged in a rough circle under a single industrial light. Four union bosses—or so they claim—sit in wait with my other brothers. In reality, they’re soldiers for the O’Malley family, the Irish mob running protection rackets through the construction unions. They stand as we enter, adjusting their jackets, showing the bulges of weapons beneath.

“Gentlemen,” I greet, walking to the center of the space, claiming it. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

The leader, a man named Doyle with a scar running from his eye to his chin, steps forward. “You said you had a proposal.”

“I did,” I confirm. “I’m proposing that you stop blocking my construction site. Stop threatening my workers. Stop demanding twenty percent cuts on a project that has margins at twelve. I’m proposing that you remember who the fuck you’re dealing with.”

Doyle smiles, baring his yellow-stained teeth. “And if we don’t?”

“Then we have a problem.”

The negotiation—or whatever this is—deteriorates quickly. Doyle rambles heatedly about tradition and that the South Side has always been their territory. “You rich pretty boys need to have some fucking respect and learn your place.”

“Did you hear that?” Beckett elbows Baldwin, overtly batting his lashes. “He thinks we’re pretty.”

“We’re not asking for permission. We’re informing you how things will be. Our project will proceed without your interference. Or we’re going to be forced to buy the docks you use for smuggling and sever the relationships with those politicians you think you own.”

Doyle’s face reddens with anger. “You threatening me, you rich prick?”

“I’m fucking promising you,” I correct, squaring up to him.

One of Doyle’s men—a kid, really—panics. His hand moves, and I catch a flash of steel thrusting toward me before I can react. Beckett lunges for him, and then there’s the unmistakable, wet thud of blade puncturing flesh. He grunts, and I turn to find the knife buried in his side, just below his ribs, blood already spreading across his shirt.

“Beck!” I catch him as he falls, his weight heavy takes us both to the floor.