Chapter Seventeen
The apartment on West End Avenue in Manhattan was quiet in the way old money could afford—thick walls, the kind of quiet money bought, and a view that stretched over Riverside Park like something claimed rather than admired.
Titus crossed the living room without thinking. His stride fit the space; his presence fit it even more. This wasn’t the Midtown penthouse. This was the subtle property—old West End Avenue architecture, carved crown molding, understated wealth meant for people who never needed to flash it.
The private elevator chimed once.
Vale stepped out.
Tailored dark coat, clean lines, and a gaze that catalogued the room with the same efficiency Titus used on a weapons layout. He moved in like he’d been raised an avenue over—comfortable, unbothered, fluent.
Titus didn’t miss it.
“You’ve been here before?” he asked—not a challenge, just fact-finding.
Vale’s mouth curved, all quiet confidence. “Places like this? Once or twice.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Titus understood the language of men who belonged anywhere they walked.
YA had already taken the dining table hostage.
Sage lounged with one knee hooked over a chair, three screens active, offshore routes and shell-company webs crawling across the displays. His blond curls were shoved back in a loose tie that meant he’d been working all night.
Aspen sat beside him, sharpened focus, quiet fingers gliding across a tablet as he sliced through encrypted folders like tissue paper. Two open knives rested beside him—not décor, just convenience.
Seeking high ground, Ocean perched on the kitchen counter with feline ease, long legs dangling, curls in his eyes as he checked the team’s weapons with a precision that would’ve made any armorer proud.
“Your slide tension was off,” Ocean said without looking up. “Fixed it.”
“Was it?” Titus frowned.
“Mhmm,” Ocean smirked.
Syx leaned against the wall, arms crossed, assessing both Titus and Vale with blunt soldier’s eyes. “You two look like you were born in this zip code.”
Titus didn’t bother denying it.
Vale didn’t either.
Sage finally spoke, tapping a key. “Savage sent the name from the SecDef.”
The screens shifted.
“Clifford Hale,” Aspen read, leaning over Sage’s shoulder.
Titus’s eyes narrowed.
Of course, it was Hale.
He stepped closer.
Vale’s gaze flicked to him. “You know him.”
“That’s not surprising,” Sage murmured. “Same circles.”
“Worse than that,” Titus said. “We went to school together.” He kept his voice even. “He hung out with my brothers.”
“But not you?” Sage asked.
Titus shook his head. “No.”
YA and Genesis knew enough about Tatum and Tanis. Vale—so new—might not. Titus wasn’t sure, but he’d said enough.
Ocean glanced up at the words but stayed silent.
Sage didn’t blink—just expanded the profile on Hale.
Aspen pulled up the guy’s financials with clean, silent precision. “Hale’s tied to six charity galas, three private-club fundraisers, and four offshore movements. Clean. Sophisticated.”
“Looks like elite-level laundering,” Sage added.
Vale murmured, “This is Hale’s world.”
“This is my world,” Titus corrected. “Hale just plays in it.”
That landed.
All eyes turned to him again—assessing, wondering.
Ocean slid Titus’s weapon back into its sheath and handed it off. “Hardware’s ready.”
Sage snorted. “Only you would call a gun ‘hardware.’”
The crack of humor snapped the tension, pulling the room back to normal.
Aspen opened a new window on the laptop. “Savage sent tomorrow’s orders.”
Sage leaned closer, scanning. “Aurelia. Executive level. Hale’s confirmed.”
“We need to discuss next steps,” Vale said. He had no doubt Hale would come to Titus like metal to a magnet. Titus was unlike anyone he’d met—born power, controlled edge. The way he lounged in a Brunello Cucinelli sweater told Vale everything. “How are we playing this?”
“We go in as two groups,” Titus said.
“YA—you’ll be young executives there to party, except for Syx. Memorize your covers. First names stay the same; the last names I assigned put you in the right tax bracket.”
Sage snorted. “Our cover sheets put us in the ‘young, wealthy, and reckless’ category. High-priced escorts fit the profile.”
“That’s exactly what we want,” Titus said. “You’ll be prime targets for purchasing entertainment. Especially if you’re throwing around money.”
Ocean pushed off the counter with a pout. “So, no shooting or stabbing?”
Titus gave him an exasperated look, then turned back to the others.
“Vale and Syx—you’ll come with me to the executive lounge where Hale’s supposed to be.”
“And I’m who exactly?” Vale asked, his gaze locked on Titus’s.
“You and Syx are my bodyguards,” Titus said. “Hale will expect it. And once the party settles in, I’ll ‘run into’ Sage and the others—old friends from a retreat.”
Sage raised a brow. “Won’t Hale be suspicious?”
“No.” Titus let his gaze sweep over the group, assessing each of them. “He likes to surround himself with beautiful people. He’s bisexual. If we’re lucky, he’ll take an interest in one of you and ask you out.”
Titus moved to the window—the skyline rising sharp, crystalline, familiar. He was back in a terrain he understood better than anyone in the room.
Like a damned battlefield.
A discreet buzz sounded from the private elevator—one short tone, the kind the building staff only used when Titus had made arrangements in advance.
Titus checked his watch. “Right on time.”
Ocean blinked. “What’s right on time?”
“Our suits for tonight,” Titus said.
Sage scoffed. “We didn’t order suits. You don’t even know our sizes.”
Titus slid a look his way. “Azrael sent them.”
Sage blinked. “Azrael knows my measurements?”
“Azrael knows everybody’s measurements,” Ocean said. “It’s unsettling.”
A few low chuckles filled the room.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
Two Zegna tailors stepped off the elevator—impossibly polished, devastatingly stylish, the kind of men who judged a room in a single glance.
One wore a silver tape measure around his neck like an accessory; the other carried a tailor’s chalk pen as if it were a scalpel.
They rolled in the double garment rack, each charcoal-gray bag marked with embossed initials.
Both men bowed their heads slightly at Titus—recognition, deference, the kind of silent respect Manhattan reserved for old money and old names.
“Mr. Harrington,” the first said. “Your pieces are finished.”
Ocean’s jaw dropped. “Finished? We haven’t even been here a full day.”
Titus unzipped the first bag. “I had Azrael send your info to Zegna to keep on file. You’ll need more than one suit for this op.”
Aspen blinked. “Damn.”
The garment racks opened like a weapons cache—sleek charcoals, midnight blacks, shadow-toned detailing that whispered money rather than screamed it. Every cut was exact. Every line meant to command a room.
Ocean slid off the counter, hands pressed together, smiling at Titus. “My hero.”
Syx rolled his eyes.
Sage lifted a jacket and held it up to his frame. “This costs more than my laptop.”
“Most suits do,” Titus said with a smirk.
Syx lifted his own bag, unimpressed by the price tag but not the craftsmanship. “I’ll look like someone people owe money to.”
“Nah, you look like someone who shoots people for money,” Sage snickered.
Ocean clapped. “You nailed Syx’s true personality.”
“Shut up,” Syx groused at them both.
Aspen slipped on his jacket, pausing mid-motion. “It’s too long.” He lifted his arms; the sleeves swallowed his hands.
“That’s why they’re here,” Titus said, nodding toward the two tailors. “Your measurements were guessed for some reason.”
The tailors stepped in immediately—quiet, precise, assured. One slipped a needle through the fabric with fluid precision—swift, silent, exact. A sleeve shortened, a seam tightened, a line corrected. No machine. Just mastery.
In the end, the jacket fit Aspen’s slender frame like it had been built for him alone.
Aspen crossed to the mirrored wall, staring at his reflection.
Ocean let out a low whistle. “Aspen, you look like a billionaire.”
Aspen flushed. “I really don’t.”
“You do,” Ocean insisted. “And it’s hot.”
Vale unzipped his own garment bag. The suit inside was midnight-black with a subtle herringbone pattern that only revealed itself when he shifted the fabric. He touched the lapel with a strange familiarity.
“You had them match ours to yours,” Vale said quietly.
Titus straightened his cuffs. “We’re going into Aurelia’s executive level. Hale will be expecting a certain image from me when we meet by chance.”
Ocean leaned toward Sage. “Translation: Titus is about to walk in there looking like the goddamn heir to Gotham, and Hale’s gonna cry.”
“He might,” Sage admitted.
Titus ignored them and slipped into his tux jacket. Everything settled into place with the weight of inevitability. He didn’t just look like he belonged. He looked like he owned the building.
“Won’t people think it’s odd you’re showing up all of a sudden?” Sage asked.
“No. I’ve been at Aurelia every night this week.”
“You didn’t have bodyguards, though,” Syx pointed out.
“No, but my cover for that is my father insisted,” Titus said with a tight smile.
Vale’s eyes lingered on him. “So,” he said, “aren’t we overdressed for bodyguards?”
Titus gave a half laugh. “No. Not for Harrington bodyguards. Hale would expect me to dress you to the nines.”
Ocean pouted. “I want to be a bodyguard.”
Titus shook his head. “Two is appropriate. Three is suspicious.”
Ocean muttered, “Only Titus could say that sentence with a straight face.”
“Wealth is a language,” Titus said. “Tonight, we’re speaking it.”
Aspen snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m fluent now. My suit cost more than my student loans.”
“You have a student loan?” Sage cocked his head.
“Not anymore. YA paid it off,” Aspen admitted.
“Don’t spill anything on your suits,” Titus warned. “They’ll charge you double.”
“Not comforting,” Ocean piped up.
Titus looked at the gathered YA crew. Powerful, sleek, dangerously beautiful in each tailored suit—they weren’t just prepared for Manhattan’s elite. They enhanced it. A rare flicker of approval moved through him; they could walk into that world tonight and look like they’d been born to it.
“Positions tonight are simple,” Titus said. “You’re young executives. You’re there to have a good time. Act like it. It’s okay to have a few drinks, but don’t get drunk. Sage, I’ll connect with you when the timing is right.”
Sage nodded once. “No hacking, no interference. Just acting casual and rich. Got it.”
His phone buzzed—just a calendar alert.
Not Viper.
Of course not.
The silence between them had become its own kind of problem—his last message to Viper still glaring up at him, a mistake he couldn’t take back.
He shut the screen before he could think about it. He’d been the one left in the desert—but Viper hadn’t wanted to leave him, had he?
“Take off your suits. Eat if you need to. Be ready by nine,” he growled, already moving down the hall.
He took his time in the shower, heat and steam stripping the day down to bone. Hair slicked back, movements precise, he dressed with crisp efficiency—shirt, tux jacket, cuff links clicking home.
The apartment filled with movement around him—Ocean arguing with Aspen about cologne, Syx grumbling about ties, Sage muttering cover details under his breath as he buttoned his shirt. It settled something in the space, a rhythm pulling them into their roles.
Titus reentered the room, slipping into his coat and buttoning the top button.
He crossed to the window—Riverside Park dipped into darkness, headlights streaking Uptown in thin golden lines. The city thrummed beneath them, humming with the kind of nightlife that cracked open doors to power and crime in the same breath.
The team emerged one by one, dressed like trouble in tailored suits.
God, he hoped this worked.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly. “Hale’s expecting a quiet night. We’ll give him something better.”
The elevator chimed again.
Vale stepped in at his side.
Syx fell in behind them.
YA fanned out with poised confidence.
Manhattan waited below—sharp, glittering, dangerous.
Titus walked into it like it belonged to him.