3. Lucas
3
LUCAS
I leave her at the edge of the grand ballroom, the noise of the party a distant hum as my focus returns to my target.
“Who was she?” a voice asks.
I look left to find my ever-loyal consigliere appear beside me, nursing a glass of whiskey. “Who?” I ask.
“The woman you kissed. The one twenty years your junior. The one who distracted you enough for you to ignore two senators and the mayor.”
He chuckles softly, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the sycophants in their designer clothes, the forced smiles, the empty laughter.
“Room full of women all invited to show you their charms, get you in the marrying mood. Then you go and choose a gatecrasher to lock lips with.”
I smirk, swirling the liquid in my glass. “They’re here for themselves, Jake, not me.”
He nods, taking a sip of his drink. “There was me thinking they were here to celebrate you buying this building.”
“A chance to get hitched to my bank account,” I counter, my tone sharp.
He watches me closely, sensing the shift in my mood. “So, what’s next? You’ve bought the building at last. Chalk up another asset for our empire. Now what?”
My lips twitch into a faint smile, though there’s little warmth in it. “The son of a bitch over there. He’s still doing it.”
As I sip my whiskey, I notice a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. The young man I spotted earlier, early twenties, blonde hair slicked back in an attempt to look older than he is. He’s hovering near the bar, his eyes darting around nervously, like a mouse that’s wandered too far from its hole.
I watch as his hand slips into a woman’s handbag while she’s distracted, his fingers deftly plucking out a credit card and tucking it into his pocket.
Amateur. He’s sloppy, too confident that no one will catch him in the act. He doesn’t seem to realize whose party he’s at, whose building this is now. My jaw tightens as I watch him.
I’ve spent years building my reputation, making sure everyone knows that in my domain, there’s no room for disrespect or disloyalty. And this little shit thinks he can get away with stealing from my guests? I’ve been watching him all night, waiting to make my move.
I drain the last of my drink, setting the glass down on a passing waiter’s tray, and make my way over to him. He doesn’t see me coming—not at first. But when I’m close enough that he can feel my presence, he finally looks up, his eyes widening in recognition and fear.
“You’re done,” I say, taking him by the wrist, making me gasp in pain as I crush the bones in my grip.
“Do you know who I am?” he tries, his voice rising in panic as he straightens his posture, attempting to recover his composure. It’s almost laughable—the way he puffs himself up, trying to intimidate me with his supposed connections, his false bravado. “Who I work for?”
I step closer, my voice low and dangerous. “I don’t give a fuck.”
His face pales, the bravado draining away as quickly as it came. He opens his mouth to stammer out an excuse, but I don’t have time for his pathetic attempts at saving face.
I turn slightly, catching Jake’s eye. He’s been watching the whole thing unfold, as always, ready to act the moment I give the signal.
Jake Marlowe has been with me long enough that he doesn’t need detailed instructions to know what I want. His expression doesn’t change as he crosses the room toward us, his large frame moving with a predatory grace.
The kid’s eyes dart from me to Jake, and I can see the moment he realizes there’s no talking his way out of this.
“Jake,” I say, my tone calm, almost casual. “Make sure he learns his lesson then throw him out.”
Jake nods once, a slight tilt of his head that speaks volumes. He grabs the kid by the collar, his grip firm and unyielding, and begins to drag him toward the exit. The kid’s protests—pleas for mercy, promises that we’ll pay for this—fall on deaf ears. I watch as Jake hauls him out of the room, his pleading fading into the distance.
I take a slow sip of whiskey, the familiar burn trailing down my throat. The party around me hums with life, the oblivious elite too engrossed in their own conversations to notice the swift justice being carried out just beyond these walls.
Or maybe they do notice, but they’re smart enough to pretend otherwise. After all, they know where they are—and more importantly, they know who I am.
I spot Emily in the corner, looking so out of place, I want to wrap her in my arms and take her wherever she wants to go, rip out the throats of whoever gave her that pain in her eyes.
She is different to the others—innocent in a way that feels almost foreign in this world of mine. There’s a vulnerability about her, an unguarded nature that makes me want to know more.
Most of the women here see me as a prize, a conquest, something to add to their list of accomplishments. All about the money and the power. But Emily… I can tell she doesn’t even know what she’s stumbled into, and that makes her all the more intriguing.
Jake returns a few minutes later. He’s wiping his knuckles with a handkerchief, a habit I’ve seen him do countless times after taking care of business. His expression is unreadable as he steps up beside me, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells me everything I need to know.
“It’s done,” he says simply, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I nod, acknowledging his words. I know Jake doesn’t need to give me the details—I can picture it all in my mind. The kid, beaten and bloodied, left with the clear understanding that he’s made a grave mistake. He won’t be a problem anymore. Ever.
“Good,” I reply, my voice just as quiet.
As Jake turns to go, his eyes flicker toward Emily, just for a brief moment. Jake misses nothing. But he doesn’t comment, just gives me a look that’s half-question, half-warning. It’s the kind of look that says he’s watching, that he knows when something’s out of the ordinary.
She’s about to leave. I can see it in the way she’s edging toward the door, her movements tentative, like she’s afraid of drawing too much attention. But she’s already drawn mine, and that’s something I don’t intend to let go of so easily.
I set my glass down, the decision made in an instant. My feet carry me across the room with purpose, the crowd parting effortlessly as I move. I catch sight of her just as she reaches for the door, her hand hovering over the handle, her back to me.
“Leaving so soon?” I ask, my voice low but clear. “I told you to stay put.”
She freezes, her hand dropping to her side as she turns to face me. There’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes, quickly masked by something else—uncertainty, perhaps. She’s trying to read me, to figure out what I want, but I can see that she’s struggling to make sense of the situation. Good. It means she’s not as jaded as the others.
“I thought I’d call it a night,” she says, her tone polite, guarded. “It’s been a long day.”
I step closer, closing the distance between us until I’m close enough to see the slight rise and fall of her chest, the way her breath catches as I approach. “Not yet,” I reply, my voice firm but not unkind. “There’s still time for a dance.”
She hesitates, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind. She’s weighing her options, trying to decide if she should stay or if she should make a run for it. I could make the decision for her, but something tells me that giving her a choice will make this all the more interesting.
“Why me?” she asks, her eyes searching mine for answers.
I smile, a slow, deliberate curve of my lips. “Because you’re different,” I say, my tone softening just enough to let her know I mean it. “And because I think you could use a little distraction tonight.”
Her eyes widen slightly at my words, and I can see the conflict in her expression. She wants to leave—wants to run back to whatever safe, familiar place she calls home—but she’s drawn to me, just as I’m drawn to her. It’s a tug-of-war I’m more than willing to play, for now.
She bites her lip, the hesitation still there, but I can see the moment she decides. With a small nod, she steps closer, her body language shifting from wary to resigned. “I can’t dance,” she says softly. “No rhythm.”
I don’t bother hiding my satisfaction. I offer her my hand, and when she takes it, I pull her gently back into the room, away from the door and the thoughts of leaving.
“Just lean against me,” I say. The music is slow, a sultry melody that suits the mood perfectly. I guide her to the center of the dance floor, the other guests watching us with a mixture of curiosity and envy.
As I place my hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer, I can feel the tension in her muscles, the way she’s trying to keep herself from relaxing into my hold.
But as we begin to move, that tension starts to melt away, replaced by something else—something more primal, more instinctive. She’s letting go, if only just a little, and that’s all I need.
We move in sync, our bodies swaying together. Her eyes find mine, and there’s something in them I can’t quite place—something raw and unguarded.
It’s a look I haven’t seen in years, not from anyone in my world. It’s the kind of look that makes me want to protect her, even as I know that I would easily destroy her.
The thought is intoxicating, and I have to remind myself to stay in control. She’s not like the others, and if I push too hard, she’ll break. And yet, a part of me is curious—how far can I take this before she pulls away?
As the song comes to an end, I don’t release her immediately. Instead, I hold her close, feeling the warmth of her body against mine, the steady beat of her heart matching my own.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way—this alive, this connected to another person. And I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a very, very dangerous one.
She looks up at me, her expression softening, and for a moment, I think she might say something. But before she can, the spell is broken.
The crowd around us starts to move again, the noise of the party returning in full force. She blinks, the moment shattered, and steps back, creating a small but noticeable distance between us.
“I really need to go,” she says, her voice wavering slightly, as if she’s trying to convince herself more than me.
I study her for a moment, weighing my next move. She’s on the edge, teetering between staying and fleeing, and I could easily tip her in either direction.
But there’s something about the way she looks at me, something vulnerable and unspoken, that makes me decide for her.
I take hold of her again, shaking my head. “You’re going nowhere.”