Chapter 17
Lucian
The room smells like cigar smoke and old money. Mahogany walls, crystal decanters, and gold-framed portraits of dead men who thought they were immortal.
I stand at the head of the table. Every major family in the city is present. Eyes sharp. Postures stiff. Waiting for me to slip.
Killing Hartford is not something that can go undiscussed. He had been my right hand, with a history in this city. A visible extension of my authority.
And I covered this conference room with his blood. That kind of decision demands explanation.
I don’t sit because sitting would imply I’m here to negotiate from below.
I let the silence stretch until it strains.
“You all know why we’re here,” I say evenly.
Across from me, Salvatore DeLuca exhales smoke and watches me through narrowed eyes. To his left sits Victor Moretti. Elias’s father.
His expression is carved from stone.
“You killed your own man,” DeLuca says. “That creates instability.”
“He created instability,” I correct calmly.
I slide a folder across the table. Copies wait in front of each boss already. Bank transfers. Recorded calls. Messages intercepted and decoded.
“Hartford fed information to outside buyers,” I say. “He attempted to frame a protected member of my household for that leak.”
Victor’s gaze flicks up at that.
“He positioned Elias Moretti as the source,” I continue. “If I had believed him, the truce between our families would have dissolved overnight.”
A murmur ripples through the room. Victor’s jaw tightens slightly, but he says nothing.
“I investigated quietly,” I go on. “I gathered proof. And when the evidence became irrefutable, I removed him.”
“You executed your underboss,” DeLuca says.
“I executed a traitor.” The difference matters.
I let my eyes move across the table slowly.
“If any of you believe I would tolerate betrayal within my ranks,” I say softly, “you misunderstand me.”
Silence again.
Then Victor leans back in his chair.
“And what of my son?” he asks.
I glance at where Elias stands in the corner of the room. He’s wearing a a blue suit tailored to his exact measurements. A gold pin bearing my crest sits on his chest boldly.
“What of him?” I reply.
“You claim he was framed,” Victor says. “Yet he remains in your home.”
“You call that protection?” he continues. “He was delivered to you as tribute. A humiliation.”
I level my eyes with Elias’s. He is unwavering.
“You mistreated him,” Victor says. “Used him as leverage. And now you kill your own men and expect us to believe the truce stands?”
The room shifts slightly. Watching. Measuring.
“You call me unstable,” Victor continues, eyes hard. “You call my son protected. But from where I sit, Lucian, you look like a monster who devours his own.”
The insult lands clean. I don’t flinch.
“What exactly are you implying?” I ask.
“I’m implying,” Victor says, “that this truce should not be upheld.”
A few heads turn at that.
I need to be careful. Victor isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t make this move without thinking through the consequences.
“You believe dissolving the truce benefits you?” I ask quietly.
“I believe my son was mistreated.”
A lie.
Or at least a convenient version of the truth.
“And I believe,” Victor continues, “that you are too volatile to lead.”
That earns a low murmur, but my pulse remains steady.
“If you’re suggesting war,” I say evenly, “then say it plainly.”
Victor opens his mouth—
A metallic click interrupts him.
The room stills. Elias stands behind his father’s chair.
With a gun labeled sweetheart in small script pressed cleanly to the back of Victor Moretti’s head.
A gift I gave him for his birthday as a joke. No one laughs now.
The other bosses go rigid, hands twitching subtly toward their jackets.
“Don’t,” I say calmly.
Not to Elias. He could shoot Victor in the head and I’d buy him whatever he wanted. No, I speak to the men that are wanting to train their bullets on my partner.
“Apologize,” Elias says steadily.
Victor’s jaw tightens. “Elias—”
“Apologize,” he repeats. “To my lover.”
The word slices through the room.
Lover.
There is no hiding now.
I meet Elias’s eyes across the table and lick my lips.
Victor exhales slowly. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
The gun presses harder.
“Apologize,” Elias says again,
Every instinct in me wants to intervene, but I told him that he is my equal. So I must support him.
Victor closes his eyes briefly.
When he opens them again, the calculation is visible.
“Lucian,” he says stiffly, “if my words were…misinterpreted—”
“Not good enough,” Elias interrupts.
I almost smile.
Victor swallows pride like poison.
“I apologize,” he says at last, voice tight. “For questioning your leadership.”
Elias doesn’t lower the gun. “And?” he prompts.
Victor’s jaw flexes. “And for implying you mistreated my son.”
The room shifts again. Elias lowers the weapon slowly. He steps back to my side.
“Is anyone else unclear?” I ask the table softly.
No one answers.
Good. I step forward slightly.
“The truce stands,” I say. “Hartford attempted to dismantle it. He is gone.”
My gaze returns to Victor. “You want assurance?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says carefully.
“Then here it is.”
I slide another document across the table.
“This outlines revised territory lines,” I say. “Three blocks in the east district transferred to Moretti control. In exchange, your import routes move under my oversight.”
Victor studies the paper.
“You’re asking for submission,” he says.
“I’m offering stability.”
“And money?” DeLuca asks.
“There will be compensation,” I reply. “Upfront.”
The room grows quiet again.
Victor looks up at me slowly. “You would put us under your umbrella?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And in return?”
“You remain intact.”
It’s not a threat but a fact.
Victor glances at Elias. At the gun still loose in his hand. At the way his son stands beside me instead of behind him.
The calculation finishes. He nods once.
“We accept.”
A ripple of tension releases.
DeLuca exhales smoke again. “You’re consolidating power, Romano.”
“Yes,” I say plainly.
“And we’re expected to trust that?”
I hold his gaze. “You’re expected to trust that I kill traitors.”
Silence.
No one argues that.
The meeting disperses slowly after that. Papers signed. Hands shaken. Victor pauses in front of Elias before leaving. Their eyes meet. Something complicated passes between them.
Regret.
Pride.
Resignation.
Victor says nothing and leaves.
When the doors finally close and the room empties, I turn to Elias fully.
He’s watching me.
Gun still in his hand.
“You weren’t supposed to do that,” I say quietly.
“I know,” he replies.
“Do you understand what that could have started?”
“Yes.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
I step closer. “Why?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Because you’re mine.”
The words land deeper than any accusation did.
“You don’t get to carry everything alone,” he says softly. “Not anymore.”
I take the gun from his hand gently. Sweetheart glints under the lights.
“You escalated a room full of armed men,” I say.
He shrugs slightly. “They were already escalating.”
I smile, pulling him close to me.
“You test me,” I murmur against his hair.
He huffs softly. “You let me.”
I pull back, studying him.
“You understand what this means?” I ask.
“That my father now answers to you?”
“To us.”
Elias smiles and pushes out of the conference room.
The elevator doors slide open with a quiet chime.
My security team moves automatically, instinctively forming a perimeter around us as we step inside. The building is ours, but habit doesn’t disappear just because the meeting ended in our favor.
Elias walks beside me, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly. He still carries that fire from the conference room—the same fire that had him pressing a gun to his father’s skull without hesitation.
It does something to me.
I step into the elevator first.
“Next one,” I tell Johnny without looking at him.
He hesitates for half a second, reading the shift in my tone.
Then he nods. “Yes, boss.”
The doors slide shut before anyone else can enter.
Just the low hum of machinery and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead filling the space.
Elias exhales slowly, some of the tension draining from his posture now that we’re alone.
“That went well,” he says lightly.
I watch him.
“You call that well?” I ask.
“You’re not dead,” he replies. “My father’s not dead. The truce stands. Feels like a win.”
The corner of my mouth lifts and the elevator begins its descent.
I reach forward and press the emergency stop button.
The car jerks to a halt.
Elias blinks. “Lucian—”
Before he can finish, I close the distance between us and grip his jaw, tilting his face up to mine.
I kiss him hard, pride coming from me in waves.
He gasps softly against my mouth, hands immediately fisting into my suit jacket like he’s been waiting for this.
The air inside the elevator thickens.
“You,” I murmur against his lips, “were extraordinary.”
He smiles faintly, breath warm against my skin. “I thought you didn’t like when I tested you.”
“I don’t.”
My mouth finds his again.
“But standing in front of a room full of armed men,” I continue between kisses, “and calling me yours?”
His breath catches.
“That was something else.”
His hands slide up to my shoulders.
“You didn’t look like you hated it,” he whispers.
I press him back gently against the mirrored wall, one hand braced beside his head.
“I loved it,” I admit quietly.
His eyes darken at that.
“You called me your lover,” I say.
He swallows. “You are.”
The word lands heavier in the enclosed space.
I lower my mouth to his jaw, then to his throat, kissing slow and deliberate. Not rushed. Not frantic.
Just controlled heat.
“You deserve to be rewarded for that,” I murmur.
He huffs a breathless laugh. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
My hands slide to his waist, pulling him flush against me. He melts into the contact immediately, fingers gripping the back of my neck now, tugging me closer.
We kiss again. My tongue sliding against his, making his knees weak.
His mouth softens under mine, and I feel the last of the meeting’s tension bleed out of both of us. No enemies. No negotiations. No legacy hanging over our heads.
Just this.
His back presses against the cool mirror. My hand slides along his side, over the line of his ribs, up to cradle the back of his head.
“You were fearless,” I murmur.
“I was angry,” he admits softly.
“It was sexy.” I go to unbutton his shirt.
He laughs against my mouth, slapping my hands away. “You’re terrible.”
“I know.”
His fingers trace the line of my collarbone, then slip under my jacket. Not searching. Just feeling.
“I meant what I said,” he whispers.
“I know.”
I kiss him again, slower now, savoring the way he responds to me. The way he leans into my touch like it’s chosen, not demanded.
When I finally pull back, his lips are flushed. His breathing uneven.
I brush my thumb along his cheek.
“You don’t ever have to prove yourself like that again,” I tell him quietly.
“I wasn’t proving myself,” he says. “I was protecting you.”
The admission settles deep. I rest my forehead against his.
“Careful,” I murmur. “You’re going to make me soft.”
He smiles faintly. “You already are.”
“That’s our secret.”
I study him for a long moment, then I release him and press the button again.
The elevator hums back to life. We straighten instinctively. Adjust clothing. Smooth edges.
By the time the doors open on the ground floor, we look composed again.
Johnny stands waiting, pretending not to notice anything. We walk past him without comment.
The lobby is quiet at this hour, polished marble reflecting the soft golden lighting. Staff members keep their heads down as we cross the space.
When we step outside, the cold air hits us gently. Spring is on the horizon.
I glance at Elias. He looks lighter than he did in that boardroom.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask casually.
He looks at me like I’ve just said something absurd.
“We just consolidated two families under your control,” he says. “You forced my father into submission.”
“And?”
“And you’re asking about dinner?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head, smiling.
“You’re unbelievable.” He exhales softly, thinking.
“Thai,” he says finally. “The place on Third. The one with the ridiculous spice levels.”
“You can’t handle their highest level,” I reply.
He lifts his chin. “Watch me.”
I almost laugh.
“Fine,” I say. “But if you regret it, I’m not listening to complaints.”
“You’ll listen,” he says confidently.
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
I step closer to him on the sidewalk, lowering my voice slightly.
“Sweetheart,” I murmur.
His breath stutters. “Yes?”
“If you collapse because you ordered something you couldn’t handle, I will absolutely remind you of this moment.”
He grins. “You like reminding me of things.”
“Yes.”
I open the car door for him. As he slides inside, he looks up at me with that same fearless spark that made him raise a gun in a room full of bosses.
And I realize something simple.
The city may fear me.
The families may bend.
But the only opinion that steadies me now—
Is his.
I close the door gently and circle to the other side.
Dinner awaits.
And for once, the only battle I’m fighting tonight is over who gets the last bite.