Chapter 3
Chapter three
War
By the time I park in the garage of Beaumont Enterprises, I’m late. I take the elevator up to the seventeenth floor, my old floor, before WesTech needed the space. Now, it’s my brother Wesley’s domain, and where we have our meeting.
As soon as the doors slide open, the relentless hum of work hits me.
Everywhere I look, people are in motion, deep in conversation, hunched over intricate schematics that might as well be written in another language.
This isn’t my world. My world is real estate, cutthroat negotiations, and making adversaries tremble with a single glance.
Inside the glass-walled conference room, my brothers are already at the table. Wesley is glued to his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. Wilder, slouched in his seat, looks up when I enter and smirks.
“War,” Wesley greets without looking up.
“Late again,” Wilder mutters, shaking his head.
I slide into my chair, stretching out my legs. “Busy morning.”
They share a knowing glance before Wesley launches into a rundown of the latest venture they want to pull me into.
My brothers and I run different businesses, but together, we monopolize more than most. I dominate real estate. Wesley owns the tech industry with WesTech. Wilder controls the entertainment world with his production company, mostly based in California, but for now, we have him here in the city.
Wesley dives into the details of some new system he’s developing, but my attention drifts. It’s not that I don’t support them, I do. But their worlds aren’t mine. Programming bugs and casting calls are pointless to me. Just like real estate law and city zoning mean nothing to them.
“War?”
Wilder’s voice cuts through my drifting thoughts. His brow arches high, expectant. Beside me, Wesley pauses mid-sentence, waiting. I let a beat pass before answering. Long enough to make them think I was considering, not zoning out.
“That’s compelling,” I reply smoothly, giving nothing away. “Run that by me again.”
Wilder rolls his eyes but repeats himself, detailing some issue he’s having with a studio space he’s looking to buy in Los Angeles. This time, I listen. I offer insights from my experience, suggest alternative solutions.
The doors burst open.
No fucking way.
In walks Santo Amato.
Italian, mafia ties, and a royal pain in my ass; a smug grin plastered on his face.
Of course, he thinks he can waltz in here like he owns the place, two goons at his side.
The temperature in the room shifts the second he steps through, as if his very presence could freeze the air. My hands curl into fists under the table, but I force myself to keep my face neutral. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
“What the hell are you doing here, Amato?” I spit out, my voice sharper than I intended.
He smiles. That lazy, taunting smirk that’s gotten under my skin since the day I met this asshole and his brother. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he asks, his tone dripping with condescension.
He’s a prick in a three piece suit whose wasted potential is the product of years of criminal activity. My eyes never leaving his as I address him, knowing that even glancing away is a sign of weakness to a man like him
“You’re far from a friend,” I snap, leaning back in my chair, making it clear I’m not intimidated. “What do you want?”
“I want a building,” he says casually, “and I hear you’re not willing to budge.”
Typical. His words are calm, but his eyes are focused, predatory. He wants me to cave, but that’s not happening. Wesley types away on his computer and confirms what we all already know—Santo’s after the Parker building.
“You want the Parker building on the east side. Smack dab in the middle of Korsakov’s territory,” Wesley says.
Maksim Korsakov, head of the Russian mob, the way these sons of a bitches have been trying to weasel, bribe and threaten their way into my businesses pisses me off.
“Gold star for you,” Santo replies, as if he’s already won. His voice is smooth, too smooth.
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes at him. “No, I’m not giving it up, especially since we all heard about your little alliance with Korsakov. I’m not giving him a damn thing.”
Santo tilts his head, looking at me like I’m some kind of joke. “Still in the middle of your little pissing contest with Maks? Pathetic.”
The urge to punch him in the face rises, but I resist.
Barely.
“Your brother still kissing his ass? So much so they gave you a bride?” I mention and I watch the way his jaw clenches.
Gotcha.
“How is that little wife of yours? Vasilisa, right?”
His eyes darken, his jaw tight. “You don’t ever say her name.”
Good. Got Him.
I smirk. Wilder chuckles. Wesley keeps typing.
I leaned forward. “Would be a shame if something happened to her. Like your—”
Click.
I don’t get a chance to finish, the sound of his goons gun cocking cuts through the air.
This son of a bitch.
Wesley’s fingers freeze on the keyboard
Wilder lifts his hands in surrender, the idiot he is.
I hold my breath, my eyes on Amato, he lifts a hand to call off his goon, the tension relaxes for a fraction.
But then he’s on me before I can even blink. His hand grips my tie, spitting threats about mentioning his wife. I let him, because if I truly let go, I’d crush his larynx before his goons blinked. He doesn’t scare me. He only reminds me what kind of men this city breeds.
Monsters in suits.
But I’m the worst of them.
He shoves me back hard. My chair teeters on two legs before I regain my balance.
Then he’s gone.
But the stink of him lingers in the air, along with his parting shot: “Oh, and tell Mandy I’ll be seeing her soon.”
Smug bastard.
I slam my fist on the table.
His mention of my sister lights a fire under my ribs.
The only time we ever gave up real estate was when that prick dated her.
She was young. Na?ve. Thought it was love. He used her to get property, and we gave it to him, on one condition: he leave her the hell alone.
If he reneges?
I’ll bulldoze every damn building he owns.
Wilder chuckles, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Well, that went about as well as expected.”
I straighten my tie. “He’s got a death wish if he thinks he can use Mandy to get under my skin.”
Wesley glances up from his laptop, one eyebrow raised. “What did you expect? He’s always been like that. You’re not going to hand over the building, and he knows it.”
“I don’t give a damn about Korsakov or whatever alliance they’ve cooked up,” I say, trying to tamp down the fury burning inside me. “But he’s not going to pull that shit with Mandy.”
The room falls quiet.
Then the door opens again.
I look up, expecting another hitman or asshole to walk through.
Instead, it’s a woman.
She’s new. And she’s impossible to ignore.
Her brown hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a face that’s all big, brown eyes and cherry-colored lips. Not glossy, not overdone, just naturally vibrant. But it’s not her face that keeps my attention.
It’s her body.
Curves. Real ones. A blouse stretched tight over breasts that would look better with my hands on them. A skirt that clings like a fucking invitation, tag still tucked in like she’ll run it back to the store after today.
New.
Cheap.
Desperate.
I can smell her need before she says a word. She’s not here for ambition, she’s here to survive. And that makes her interesting. Because survivalists will do anything. And I want to see what “anything” looks like on her knees.
She’s tempting.
I force my gaze back to her face, but she isn’t looking at me.
Her attention is on Wesley.
I don’t like that.
Wesley stands, smiling warmly as he extends a hand. “Ms. Baker, right?”
She nods, shaking his hand firmly. There’s a confidence in her grip, even though I catch the slight uncertainty in her eyes.
“Yes. Olivia Baker.”
Damn.
Her voice.
I feel it in my chest, low and warm, with just the right amount of huskiness. Like melted honey and something I suddenly want to hear a lot more of.
Her eyes flick toward me, just for a second, before darting back to Wesley. The moment is so brief, I might have imagined it.
But I know I didn’t.
I sit up straighter, my interest piqued in a way that hasn’t happened in a long time.