Chapter 34 Lorenzo
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 improvement assessment 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.
On the camera feed, the sedan's brake lights flare. The car reverses out of the space, rolls toward the lot exit, and turns onto the main road. We watch the screen until the car disappears from frame.
"You’ll send Margaux the footage?" I ask.
"Sent." Nicholas takes the phone from my hand and sets it back on the bar, screen down, exactly where Wilson left it. "He won't try the parking lot again. He'll find another angle."
"And we'll be ready for that one too."
I let my shoulders fall as I turn my attention back to the floor, Oliver now being a nuisance to Wilson but our Beta is smiling. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him and while at some point, we’ll tell him about Sebastian still trying to get to him, I’ll leave it be for now.
I want to preserve the happiness on that man’s face for as long as I can.
Oliver bounds over toward us, his eyes narrowing slightly as he picks up on something before waving his hand in the air. Wilson rushes over, obviously trying to curb a conversation but Oliver just shakes his head.
“No, don’t listen to Wilson. This is important.”
Wilson snorts. “Oliver, renovations to the apartment aren’t important. We can figure that out later.”
Our Omega throws his head back dramatically and sighs.
“We won, okay? We won. I don’t know why we can’t also fix up the apartment.
” He drags out his phone and starts moving through pictures at warp speed.
I always forget how much energy he has after we finally drag him out of the nest after a heat.
“Do you think we could knock out the wall between the guest room and the bedroom?” He tilts his phone toward me, revealing a floor plan sketched crudely on his phone.
“If we open it up, the nest could extend across the whole—”
I press a palm to the counter’s worn edge and study his rough lines. “That wall bears the building’s load,” I say.
He leans forward, eyes bright. “What if we install a beam?”
"Oliver."
"A very attractive beam. Nicholas knows contractors."
I pinch the bridge of my nose and just shake my head. “Baby, please. For like one minute…” I pause and study Oliver, wondering why this post-heat excitement is so much worse than usual. “Who the fuck let Oliver have coffee?”
Nicholas shoots me a wild grin. “Whoops? What? He was very convincing. It was only one cup.”
Wilson starts laughing as he wrangles Oliver into his head. “Nicholas, I assure that it wasn’t just one cup and with the amount of sugar I watched Oliver put in once, he’s going to be bouncing off the walls all night.”
Oliver pushes against me, once again going on about renovations until his thoughts shift. “Oh, the party!” He dashes off, leaving the three of us a little worse for wear.
Wilson’s mouth twitches as the bite shifts against his lower lip. “Celebrating isn’t really my—”
“Well, you said whatever Oliver wants and now he’s planning something with champagne and glitter. Brace yourself.”
35 - Wilson
Three Weeks Later
Table seven hosts the bachelorette party.
They’ve ordered a fourth round of Oliver’s Glitter Bomb.
Inside each glass, vodka and elderflower swirl in liquid stardust. Edible glitter coats the walls so thickly the mix seems stolen from a craft store after hours.
The bride-to-be perches on her stool, sash declaring LAST FLING BEFORE THE RING.
Her maid of honor leans forward, eyelashes glinting in the strobe, and asks if I’m single again.
Oliver calls from behind the bar, lips brushing the words without glancing up. “He’s taken. Very taken. Aggressively taken.” He shifts a bottle into the shaker, and his gaze flicks sideways.
“Nobody asked you,” I whisper, chin lifting in challenge.
Oliver flexes his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Her eyes asked me. I answered on your behalf. You’re welcome.”
The maid of honor grins, mouth curving in a crooked promise. She waves at me. Glasses clink on my tray as I thread between the crowd, avoiding a spray of spilled beer near the DJ booth. She breathes her thanks, voice husky as I just tilt my head and slip back into the blur.
Nicholas meets my gaze across and his lips curve into a slow smile that reaches his eyes.
I look away before my face does something embarrassing.
Oliver is already watching me from behind the bar with the expression of a man who has caught something delightful and is deciding how loudly to announce it.
"Don't," I tell him.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're composing a sentence. I can see it forming. Don't."