Chapter Twenty-four
Lorenzo
The anniversary is tomorrow, and Ashley already planned every detail. She’s efficient, obsessively so, and if there’s one thing, she’s good at, it’s organizing these events.
Invitations have already gone out, even to the Attorney General and his lovely, perfect little family.
I wonder if she’ll come.
The thought lingers longer than it should, but I push it aside. I have more important matters to deal with.
The news from Andres hit me harder than I’d like to admit. I told him to keep digging, to find every scrap of information he could about my father’s dealings with Beaumont. Something doesn’t add up. Francesco confirmed the basics about the business proposal, but there’s more. There’s always more.
The knock at my office door pulls me from my thoughts.
I don’t bother looking up. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor tells me exactly who it is. Ashley.
Her tall frame comes into view, and I already know why she’s here. It’s the same thing every year, and I know how this ends.
Her eyes meet mine as she steps into the room, her usual uniform on full display, red lipstick, a low neckline that barely conceals her assets, and legs that go on forever beneath a silk dress.
She leans against the doorframe, confidence oozing from her every move.
“Mr. Moretti,” she begins, her voice smooth and practiced, “we need to discuss your plus one for tomorrow.”
I don’t bother lifting my head from my phone. I’m in the middle of texting Kirill. He needs me to deal with some senator who’s become a problem. It’s always senators.
“Mhm?” I mutter, barely acknowledging her.
Let her interpret that however she wants. It’s more entertaining that way.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shift her weight, waiting for me to give her my full attention. But I don’t. Not yet.
She knows the game, and she plays her part well.
But I have little patience for games tonight.
There are bigger things at play, and this party, this conversation, it’s just noise.
Noise I’ll deal with, as always.
But first, Kirill.
And then, perhaps, I’ll decide what Ashley deserves this year.
I’ve never seen Ashley annoyed, at least, not visibly. She’s too good at keeping her composure. But I know what she’s waiting for. She probably wants me to ask her to the party, like every other year.
“Lorenzo, you need a date for tomorrow,” she says finally, her tone perfectly professional but edged with expectation. “Do you have someone in mind, or shall we go with our usual arrangement and attend together?”
There it is.
I could deny her, but what would be the point? She’s efficient, predictable, and knows her role well enough.
“You’re coming with me,” I reply, finally lifting my head from my phone to meet her gaze. “Anything else?”
I don’t have time for this.
“That would be all,” she says, her voice smooth, but there’s a flicker of satisfaction in her expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 8 p.m. Also, I’m leaving early today, for shopping.”
She turns to leave, her heels clicking on the floor, but I don’t respond to her little comment. She can shop for whatever she wants as long as she shows up on time and doesn’t annoy me.
My attention shifts as my phone buzzes in my hand. Kirill.
“Moretti,” I answer coldly.
“Meet me at Cursed in 30 minutes,” he says, his tone flat, no room for argument.
“Right.” I hang up.
I leave the office, heading straight to the car. The moment I step outside, I see Andres waiting for me.
Kirill called him too. Interesting.
Andres greets me with a brotherly hug, his hand gripping my shoulder firmly.
“How are you doing, man?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with concern.
I know what he’s really asking.
He wants to know how I feel about what we’ve discovered, about my father, the Attorney General, and the tangled mess we’re starting to unravel.
But I don’t feel.
Not the way he expects.
The fire in my chest isn’t grief or confusion, it’s rage. Controlled, calculated rage.
“I’m good. Tired,” I say flatly. Not a lie. I haven’t slept all night, my mind spinning with too many unanswered questions and the weight of what’s coming.
Andres nods but doesn’t push further. He knows better.
We get into his car and drive to Cursed. The club, of course, is open, it’s Friday night. The music vibrates through the walls as we head straight to the business suite.
Lev is already there.
Of course, he is.
And, as usual, he’s wasted.
There’s a line of coke on the table, and Lev is sprawled across the couch, barely acknowledging us as we walk in. He blinks at us for a moment, his glassy eyes struggling to focus, and then, without a word, he takes another line.
I sit down next to him, and Andres settles into the seat beside me.
“What the fuck are you doing, Lev?” I snap, my patience already thin. “There’s no time for us to call an ambulance because you overdosed during our meeting. Put that shit down.”
He looks at me, annoyed, his expression oozing disgust, like a teenager being scolded by a parent.
Without a word, he throws his legs up onto the table, crosses them like he owns the world, and pulls out his phone to start texting.
Fucking Lev. A 27-year-old billionaire who acts like a rebellious teenager with too much access to money and drugs.
My jaw tightens, but I let it go. For now.
The door opens, and Kirill strides into the room, Ice following closely behind.
Good.
No trace of that little devil he always seems to have in tow.
Thank God.
The last thing I need right now is to deal with her attitude on top of everything else.
Kirill gives me a curt nod, his expression as unreadable as ever. Ice’s face is its usual mask of indifference, but his sharp eyes take in everything as he moves to his seat.
There’s a heavy tension in the air, but that’s not new.
“Thank you for coming,” Kirill says, his voice cold as he sets a leather bag on the table. He pulls out a stack of files and begins distributing them, one to each of us.
I glance down at the picture in front of me, an older man, mid-60s, with a face that screams power and entitlement. Andres and Lev receive photos of two younger men, likely in their late 20s, both bearing an arrogant smirk that’s begging to be wiped off their faces.
“This man,” Kirill begins, pointing to the old bastard in my picture, “is Senator Patrick Donaldson. And these two shits,” he motions to the photos Andres and Lev hold, “are his sons.”
I feel my lip curl at the mention of the senator’s name. Politicians like him always think they’re untouchable.
“Lorenzo,” Kirill says, fixing me with a cold, deliberate stare, “I want you in charge of this.”
By ‘in charge,’ he means torture.
Fine by me. It’s been a shitty week, and I could use the distraction.
“Andres,” Kirill continues, turning to him, “I need a well-trained security team to follow my daughter.”
In Kirill’s world, “well-trained” translates to lethal. He doesn’t want bodyguards; he wants killing machines. Men who won’t hesitate to rip apart anything, or anyone, that gets within breathing distance of his daughter.
Lev looks up from his photo, his usual smirk gone, replaced by a rare expression of fury. His eyes meet Kirill’s.
“What the fuck happened?” Lev asks, his voice low but charged.
Kirill leans back slightly, his hand moving to the back of his head as he massages the tension building there. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his eyes darkening as the weight of his next words sinks into the room.
“My youngest daughter, Anastasia, was attacked last night.”
The air shifts instantly, the weight of his statement settling over us like a storm cloud.
“The matter has been taken care of,” he continues, his tone measured, “but the men involved mentioned Donaldson’s name.”
Donaldson. That old bastard’s name is starting to piss me off.
Kirill’s hand drops from the back of his head, his eyes locking onto Lev.
“I want to know why he would send someone after my daughter. And I want his two sons delivered to me.”
Lev’s jaw tightens, his fury barely contained, but he nods, accepting the task without hesitation.
“I’ll need the basement at Cursed to hold them after you collect them,” Kirill adds. “I’ve already purchased another building to handle our business enemies, but it’s still being set up by my team.”
I can’t help but feel the anger simmering beneath my own skin. What kind of sick bastard goes after a 16-year-old girl?
“Any questions?” Kirill asks, his voice steady, but the exhaustion is etched into his face. The shadows under his eyes tell me he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks, maybe longer.
Andres and I exchange a glance before nodding at Kirill.
I can already feel the adrenaline kicking in. It’s been too long since I had some real fun, and I’m ready to handle Donaldson and his worthless sons.
“No questions,” Lev mutters, rising from his seat. “Stay as long as you need. I’ve got other business to attend to.”
He’s gone before Kirill can respond, his movements sharp and abrupt.
Something’s off about him.
Lev’s been spiraling, obsessing over finding out who killed his family. I can’t blame him for the obsession; I’d be the same way if it were me. But he’s been making stupid decisions, like drowning himself in booze and fighting in Kirill’s underground clubs like a man with a death wish.
Andres finally breaks the silence. “When do you want them collected?”
Kirill leans back slightly, sighing like a parent tired of babysitting unruly kids. “As soon as possible,” he replies. “But tomorrow is Moretti’s Anniversary, and I know how you two handle parties. I doubt either of you will be functional the day after.”
I smirk, but he’s not wrong.
“I want them collected on Monday,” Kirill says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Everyone’s coming tomorrow, right?” I ask, my voice flat. I already know the answer, but I need the confirmation to prepare myself for the endless parade of fake smiles and empty handshakes from my father’s former associates.