Chapter Eighteen
Aurelia breathed money.
Not the loud, flashy kind—the old-world kind wrapped in modern lacquer.
He rarely set foot on the main floor. Usually, he moved through the private lounge across from the offices, where the music stayed muted, and the crowd reduced to a distant vibration. Down here was another world—heat, sound, motion—alive in a way the upper level never pretended to be.
Bass rolled under marble like a heartbeat, crystal clinking through it. Not a club—a power nexus. Beautiful bodies slipped through the light, all sleek lines and ambition disguised as play.
At the center, the dance floor glowed—bodies moving in slow, practiced abandon. The beat was low and predatory, meant to loosen judgment. Gold and indigo light cut over sequins and skin, sweat and laughter, secrets whispered beneath the thrum.
He belonged here—always had. He wore this world like a second skin.
One of the doormen dipped his head. “Evening, sir.”
Titus tipped his in return.
The balcony curved above, an elegant sweep of smoked glass and brass rails. Private alcoves glowed with low amber light—places for deals, threats, whispered promises. Servers in black moved like shadows, weaving through the crowd with trays of aged scotch, rare bourbon, and glowing cocktails.
Syx leaned in behind him. “Your mark is already here.”
Titus murmured, still taking in the main floor, “He can wait.”
A woman waited at the entry, ready to take his coat when he slid it off his shoulders.
“Your table’s ready, Mr. Harrington,” she said.
“Keep the upstairs clear for later,” he said, stepping farther inside.
“Yes, sir.”
Eyes followed—curious, assessing, hungry.
Vale and Syx flanked him.
Titus moved through them with effortless precision—tailored Zegna, old-money lines, and a calm that made people step aside without knowing why.
Their table sat on a raised platform overlooking the floor—privacy without distance. Vale took the seat to Titus’s right, Syx to his left, both settling like men who owned the ground beneath them.
A server drifted over, all soft curves and practiced charm. “Can I start you with something?”
“Sparkling water,” Vale said, not looking up from the room.
Syx leaned back, a slow grin ghosting his mouth. “Whatever you recommend,” he told her, voice low. “Surprise me.”
She blinked—flustered, but recovering fast—then smiled.
Vale finally cut his eyes toward Syx, then up at her. “You can do better than him, honey.”
She laughed—bright and unguarded—before catching herself. “I’ll be back, sirs.”
Titus didn’t comment. Vale and Syx flirting with staff was practically a tax write-off—predictable, irritatingly effective, and useful for keeping eyes off Titus.
Movement at the far side of the room caught his attention.
Sage, Ocean, and Aspen had arrived.
They stood near the entrance like they belonged on a magazine cover—three young executives in Zegna and Tom Ford, all clean lines and expensive watches.
Sage grinned outright, the cocky bastard.
Ocean flipped dark curls off his forehead, poised as ever, while Aspen scanned the room with quiet precision, man-bun neat, posture flawless.
They claimed a corner and owned it—shots ordered, laughter spilling, the three of them bright enough to draw eyes from every direction. Visible. Beautiful. Untouchable.
It didn’t take long before a crowd gathered.
Titus angled his glass, catching the reflection of their table in the mirror behind the bar.
Waiting. Watching.
His eyes met Clifford Hale’s across a short distance—the surprise, the sudden flicker of pain.
Titus gave a slight, knowing smile. Hale said something to the people beside him, then crossed the room with quiet purpose—two bodyguards shadowing him, armed if the bulges in their jackets were correct.
“Titus?” Hale said, uncertainty flickering in his eyes—it had always been difficult to tell the triplets apart.
Titus set his glass down.
Syx and Vale moved before he did—both sliding out of the booth in one fluid, silent motion. One stepped to his left, the other to his right. No posturing, no crowding. Just presence. Just protection.
Hale didn’t blink.
Of course, he didn’t.
He recognized bodyguards the way sharks recognized blood in the water—instantly, without ceremony. His gaze swept Syx and Vale in a single efficient pass. No curiosity. No challenge. Just an assessment, filed neatly away.
“Titus,” Hale said again, more certain this time. His voice even, measured—a man who knew power never needed to be loud. “It’s been years.”
Titus gave a faint incline of his head. “Hale. Yes, it has.”
For a beat, Hale studied him—nothing invasive, nothing unprofessional. Just a man cataloguing details the way men in his world always did.
“I was sorry to hear about Tatum.” His tone stayed low and controlled, but Titus caught the thread of pain. “I hated that he died that way.”
The public lie—car accident—hung between them like smoke.
Titus drew in a breath and gave a slow nod, eyes steady on Hale…the man knew nothing about the fracture between him and his brothers years ago.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Hale returned the nod. No probing. No lingering. A clean acknowledgment.
A worthy adversary knew exactly when to stop.
Titus lifted his hand toward the booth, and Hale slid onto the rich leather seat.
“You don’t normally come here,” Titus said.
“Oh?” Hale slid him a mild, unreadable look.
“I’ve been back a week, and I haven’t seen you,” he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
“You’re correct, I don’t normally come here,” Hale allowed, giving his order to the waitress with a brief nod. “I was meeting a client nearby, so I stopped for a drink.”
Across the room, the crowd grew rowdy enough to pull Hale’s attention. Titus turned his head and gave the slightest signal.
Sage waved like a madman.
“Who’s that?” Hale asked.
“Friends of mine.”
Sage elbowed Ocean before tipping his chin toward Aspen. The three peeled out of their corner with practiced ease.
Hale’s gaze moved over Sage first—the wide grin, the sharp suit—then to Ocean with his curls and impossible poise, then to Aspen: quiet, precise, eyes like a blade behind polished restraint.
No lust.
No hunger.
Hale’s interest was smarter than that.
Calculation.
Recognition of value.
Young power, dressed like money, moving at Titus’s silent command.
Titus watched Hale watch them.
Hale eased back against the leather, posture relaxed but mind anything but—Titus could see it in the way his fingers stilled against the edge of the table, in the quiet calculation behind his eyes.
He lifted a hand—small, but enough.
Sage caught it instantly, his grin breaking wide as he pushed off from the bar. The three of them cut across the room with practiced ease, slipping through the crowd like they’d been raised in places exactly like this.
The first to reach the booth, Sage offered Hale his hand, confidence bordering on reckless. “Evening.”
Ocean followed, sliding into the open seat, curls falling perfectly across his forehead as if the lighting had arranged itself for him. Aspen took the far chair—quiet, spine straight, eyes steady.
Their arrival drew a faint shift in Hale’s expression. He acknowledged each of them with a polite nod, the kind reserved for men who might matter later.
“This is Sage,” Titus said, keeping it simple. “Ocean. Aspen.”
“Unique names, like yours,” Hale murmured.
“Very,” Titus agreed.
“Mine’s a nickname,” Sage said, leaning in as he draped an arm over the booth like he owned it. Ocean crossed one leg over the other with fluid grace. Aspen remained composed, silent but present—always the most dangerous one in the room if you knew how to read him.
The table now felt like a power cluster.
Hale’s eyes moved from one young adult to the next before returning to Titus with a mild, assessing tilt of his head.
“You surround yourself well.”
Titus gave a slight nod, offering nothing more.
“So, you’ve been back a week now,” Hale said, voice low, conversational. “Intending to stay?”
Titus swirled the whiskey in his glass. “For now.”
A non-answer.
Hale took it as it was meant—polite, closed, a line drawn.
“I see.” Hale’s gaze drifted over the crowd, thoughtful. “New York always shifts when the old families return. People pay attention.”
Titus didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
Vale leaned an elbow on the back of the booth, watching Hale with the kind of stillness that made smart men keep their distance. Syx stayed on the other side, arms loose at his sides, gaze drifting without ever really leaving Hale.
Hale noticed the formation, the professionalism, the readiness. His expression didn’t change—only sharpened slightly at the edges.
Sage, never knowing how to leave silence alone, leaned forward with a grin. “So, Hale—what do you do? You look too polished to be unemployed.”
Ocean snorted softly. Aspen hid a smile behind his glass.
Hale took the question in stride. “Consulting,” he said, tone mild. “Strategic advising for a few…select clients.”
Sage rested his chin on his hand, flirting without even trying. “Sounds ominous.”
“It can be,” Hale admitted, his eyes sliding to Titus—and holding. “They expect a certain discretion.”
A warning? Not quite.
A veiled reference? Maybe.
More likely an invitation.
Titus read all three. Hale was testing the assumption most men in their world made—that if Tanis and Tatum had done business with monsters, then Titus would be open to the same.
He’d planned on steering Hale in that direction anyway.
Now he didn’t have to.
“Discretion is in short supply these days,” Titus said.
Hale’s mouth tipped, faint amusement flickering. “Yes,” he said quietly, “it is.”
As he waited for Hale to elaborate, Titus let his gaze drift across the room toward the entry.
A slight stir had started—subtle, but noticeable. Someone had arrived.
He frowned at the growing cluster of people near the entrance.
“Need a refill?” the waitress asked, stepping into his line of sight. He glanced up and nodded.
As she moved away, the view opened—clear, unobstructed. Across the dance floor, near the entry—
Viper.
“Holy fuck,” Hale breathed—completely out of character.
Titus shot Hale a dark glare, grinding his teeth.
Viper looked smoking hot.
Commanding.
Powerful.
Every person in the place wanted to date him or fuck him.
And he was wearing a suit—Brioni, if Titus wasn’t mistaken—as if he’d been born in it.
Those stormy blue eyes swept the club in full predator mode, cleaving through bodies until they locked on him.
Titus felt the air leave his lungs, which was stupid. He couldn’t seem to drag in a full breath as Viper crossed the room in powerful strides, owning the place without trying.
A dozen questions crashed in at once. Why was he here? Why that suit? Why were his men with him—and dressed to the hilt?
“Titus.”
The growled word sent a sharp shiver down his spine—before he snapped the hell out of whatever that was.
Viper was about to ruin his op.
“You two know each other?” Hale asked, suspicion sharpening his voice.
“Yes.” Titus slid from the booth in one smooth motion and crossed to Viper. “Hello, darling.”
Viper froze.
Perfect.
Titus leaned in and pressed a kiss to Viper’s cheek.
“Who’s this, Titus?” Hale asked, voice smooth as silk—but Titus heard the suspicion, the warning underneath.
“This,” Titus said, slipping an arm around Viper’s waist and pulling him close, cinching him to his side. Viper stiffened but went with it.
Thank fuck.
“—is my fiancé.”
Hale would expect nothing less from their class.
They didn’t do boyfriends.
It was spouse, fiancé, or nothing.
“Significant other” was a term for people without money.
Titus had dated men in college; this wasn’t a stretch.
He turned slightly, keeping Viper close. “This is a friend of mine—Clifford Hale.”
Hale inclined his head in greeting, polite and curious.
“And you are?” Hale asked.
“Reid,” Viper said.
“Reid who?” Hale frowned.
“Kensington.”
Shock moved across Hale’s face—quick, stark. The name carried weight.
“And off-limits,” Titus muttered.
He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Well…fuck.