Chapter 11
T he rain’s long gone, but the city still feels wet—like it’s holding its breath.
Up in the main conference room of The Ledger, the table is sleek, the chairs are filled, and every man here knows exactly why we’re meeting. No one’s wasting time.
I pull out the file I prepared at five this morning and slide it to the center of the table.
Lorenzo DeLuca.
Three sets of eyes lock on the name. No one flinches. That’s why they’re in this room.
“He’ll retaliate,” I say plainly. “We all know it. He lost a brother. His pride. He’ll want blood for both.”
Rian, head of personal security, nods once. “So far he’s keeping it quiet. But we’ve got eyes near the docks and his warehouses. Traffic’s up.”
“He’ll test the waters.” My fingers tap twice on the folder. “Look for cracks.”
I lean back, lacing my hands in front of me. “There can’t be any.”
No one answers. They know better.
I shift the conversation. “Until he shows his hand, I want protection increased around all high-profile companions. Start with Sera.”
A few glances pass. Everyone knows why.
“She’s the reason Enrico got himself killed,” I say flatly. “And now she’s vulnerable. Lorenzo’s not in his right mind, and I’m not taking chances with someone who’s already been through hell.”
Killian steps forward without hesitation. “I’ll see to her myself.”
“Good.” I meet his eyes. “She doesn’t need to know the details. Just keep her safe.”
He nods. “Understood.”
I rise from my chair, the room going still.
“The next time someone so much as breathes wrong in my direction…”
I sweep a glance over the table.
“…I expect a name on my desk before the body goes cold.”
They all nod once. They know the drill but Rian answers for all of them.
“Clear, boss.”
Downstairs in my office, I pick up my espresso cup—the second of the morning—and it’s barely eight.
The flavor is bitter, sharp. I welcome it.
On my screen, the sponsor bids for this season’s recruits load in a neat column. I intend to skim through them with the same clinical precision I apply to everything else.
Until I see her name right at the top of the fucking list.
Sienna Knight.
I didn’t need to search for her. She’s the name already highlighted, bold and glowing with more bids than any other recruit in this class.
Of course she is.
I sit back, jaw tight.
It’s not just her looks. The Ledger sees beautiful women walk through its doors every week. Polished. Poised. Professionally seductive. I’ve seen thousands. I’ve forgotten most of their names.
But Sienna?
There’s something raw in her. Something unshaped.
She doesn’t even realize how enticing she is.
That makes her dangerous.
Her lack of experience isn’t a liability—it’s a fucking selling point. The sponsors don’t just want to guide her… they want to mold her. Shape her. Break her in. Claim her as their own.
The thought sits like a shard of glass in my gut.
I push the espresso aside, suddenly uninterested.
Curious. Eager. Defiant.
That’s what I saw the night she stood on that rooftop, face-to-face with a man who thought he could intimidate her. She didn’t back down then—and she hasn’t since.
The sponsors see it. They want it.
And I don’t like it.
Not one damn bit.
I tap a finger against the screen, then slide open the document with her post-mixer notes. Standard protocol—each recruit ranks their sponsor interactions. Comments, impressions, preferences.
Sienna’s are… brief. Polite. Noncommittal.
She liked several. Admired a few. Thought one or two seemed “interesting.”
But she didn’t pick one.
Not yet.
She’s waiting.
Or hesitating.
And she has every right to. The top girl always gets her pick. It’s how we’ve always done it.
But Sienna Knight isn’t like the others.
She’s too new. Too raw. Still full of bright edges and nervous smiles. The kind of recruit who doesn’t know what the wrong choice could cost her.
And I’ve seen what the wrong sponsor can do.
It starts with overconfidence. A client who thinks he can reshape her faster than she’s ready for. Push her too far, too fast. They think if she crumbles, they’ll rebuild her stronger.
But they never do.
They just break her.
My jaw ticks as I scroll through the approved sponsor list, reading with a narrowed eye. I vetted these men myself. I know their preferences. Their patterns. Their reputations.
None of them are right for her.
Not really.
She needs structure. Patience. A steady hand and someone who will know when to pull back, not just how to push forward.
That’s why I’m looking into this.
Not because I want her.
Not because her auburn hair has been crawling under my skin since that rooftop party.
Not because I watched her watch me last night. Or because I’ve imagined her bound in leather and writhing in my hands no less than two dozen times since we locked eyes in the Devil’s Playground.
No.
It’s because no one else will handle her correctly.
That’s all.
That’s the only reason I’m doing this.
And I tell myself that lie again as I pull up her file, slide my finger over to the “sponsor override” tab…
And then I page Eve.