42. Keeping The Peace
Chapter 42
Keeping The Peace
HUNTER
P ower is about perception.
And tonight, I need every motherfucker in this room to perceive me exactly the way I want them to.
As a man who is unshaken.
As a man who is still standing.
As a man who—despite the attempt on my life, despite that my woman was kidnapped, despite the newborn son waiting for me at home, despite the fact that my enemies might think I’m distracted––I’m still the deadliest son of a bitch they’ve ever sat across from.
That’s why I make them wait.
Vaughn, Christian, and I arrive twenty-two minutes late to the meeting, strolling through the double doors of Tuscan Trattoria, a high-end Italian restaurant in West Hollywood that serves as neutral ground for these kinds of conversations when I don’t host at the Blue Whiskey.
I don’t rush.
I don’t apologize.
I let them feel my absence before they feel my presence.
And when I finally sit, I don’t even acknowledge their impatience. I simply lean back, take in the room, and let the silence do the heavy lifting.
Two groups.
Two men sitting across from me—Santos Ortega and Vincent Morelli.
Santos is old-school Mexican cartel, an old lion with graying hair, a sharp suit, and sharper eyes. He’s been running things in his corner of the city for decades, and though he’s ruthless as hell, he’s also a businessman first.
Vincent Morelli, on the other hand, is young, brash, and barely controlling the Italian operations left behind by his recently deceased uncle from Las Vegas. He’s still learning, still fighting for respect. Which means he’s unpredictable and the problem I’m here to neutralize.
The tension in the air is thick. The smell of garlic and charred meat drifts through the room, but no one is here for the fucking food.
Vincent leans forward first, his gold-ringed fingers drumming against the table. In fact, his whole outfit is a throwback to the early 90’s. He must have a thing for nostalgia.
“Glad you could make it, Middleton,” he says, voice slick with sarcasm.
I just stare at him. Unblinking. Silent. Letting him feel the weight of his own words.
A lesser man would try to fill the space, try to justify his annoyance.
Vincent shifts slightly, his confidence cracking just a fraction.
Santos chuckles under his breath, sipping from a glass of red wine.
“You’re late,” Vincent mutters again, clearly unable to let it go.
I finally lean forward, slow and deliberate, folding my hands together on the table.
“You’re still breathing,” I say, my voice even. “I’d say we’re even.”
Christian exhales sharply through his nose—a quiet, restrained laugh. Vaughn smirks.
Santos leans back, amused, watching the young Morelli heir struggle to keep his composure.
Vincent’s face darkens, but he knows better than to push.
Because I may have come to the table late, but I didn’t come weak.
I came as the man who survived an assassination attempt.
I came as the man who most respect, and many still fear.
“Let’s cut the bullshit,” I say, my voice dropping an octave. “We’re here because after Fabre’s failed attempt to kill me, someone got bold and put a bullet in a car in front of my club last week. And while I don’t mind sending a very public message about how bad of a fucking idea that was, my fiancée seems to think my energy is better spent at home with our son.”
I let that sit for a second.
I don’t flinch when I say it. I don’t soften my voice. I don’t let them think for one second that fatherhood has made me weak.
It’s made me sharper. More dangerous.
Because now? I’ve got more to lose.
Santos gives me a slow, knowing nod. “The same thing happened at my body shop.”
Of course, I already knew that. That’s why we’re here.
I shift my gaze to Vincent, and I see it immediately—the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tap just a little too fast against the table.
He’s nervous.
Which means he knows something or he’s guilty.
“You got something to say, Morelli?” I ask, my voice sharp enough to cut through the thick atmosphere.
Vincent scoffs, but it’s weak. “I don’t know what you or the old man are talking about. You asked me to come here. I’m here. But I didn’t shoot anyone.”
I nod slowly. “Right.” I glance at Vaughn. “Remind me—how many men deny their participation in whatever stupid shit they’ve done?”
Vaughn smirks. “Too many.”
Christian leans forward, his dark eyes cold. “But they always seem to find the truth toward the end.”
Vincent exhales sharply, his fingers stilling against the table.
“Now, see,” I continue, my voice calm, deadly, controlled. “I think you may need a brief lesson on how this works. Do you know Ben Pierre?”
“Of course, I know him. The Hatian hellraiser. Everyone in LA knows who he is.”
“Then you should know that when people he does business with, such as myself and Mr. Santos, are being targeted, that makes him uneasy, and an uneasy Ben is like a powder keg.”
“So?”
“That’s where I come in. I’m here to make sure that shit doesn’t blow up.”
Vincent shifts in his seat, his bravado cracking just slightly.
I take another pause, letting silence press in on him.
Then, I sit back, my hands relaxed on the table, my posture easy—like this is nothing more than a casual conversation.
“You put a bullet in my car,” I say, my voice low and measured. “That’s a declaration of war. But you’re young and dumb, and I’m in a generous fucking mood. So I’m going to give you a choice.”
Vincent swallows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod toward Christian.
Christian reaches into his jacket, pulls out a thick, white envelope, and slides it across the table toward Vincent.
Vincent eyes it warily.
“Open it,” I instruct.
He does, his brows furrowing as he pulls out the contents—ten thousand dollars in cash.
“You’re out,” I say simply. “No more moving weight through Santo’s shop, no more backdoor deals at the Blue Whiskey, and no more stupid motherfuckers that work for you taking shots at us.”
Vincent looks up, his face paling. “That’s?—”
“That’s your only option,” I cut in smoothly. “Take the money and go back to Las Vegas. It’s not going to happen for you here. And if you make me deal with you another way, it’s not going to be over drinks and pasta, Vincent. And I promise you—” I lean in, lowering my voice just for him, “I won’t miss.”
Santos chuckles under his breath, clearly entertained. He didn’t really need to be at this meeting, but I felt like putting on a show. Everyone needs to know just how invested I am in keeping the peace.
Vincent’s jaw flexes. His hand clenches the envelope, his pride struggling with his fear. Making his name in Los Angeles was important to him, but there are rules to this shit—with little room for error. Hell, I’m actually doing him a favor. Rumor had it that both Santos and Ben were thinking about killing him, which would have set off a whole new set of problems for me.
So here we are.
And in the end, with a guy like Vincent?
Fear wins.
He nods stiffly, holding the envelope of cash tightly. “Fine.”
I let a slow smirk spread across my face.
“Good boy.”
Then I stand, Christian and Vaughn rising beside me, and without another word, I walk out of the restaurant—still breathing, still untouchable, and still the motherfucker to who this city answers.
And I intend to keep it that way.