Chapter 25
I t starts small.
A few liquor suppliers backing out of pending shipments. Nothing earth-shattering. Just enough to raise an eyebrow.
Then a couple of restaurant clients delay signing their renewal contracts. They ask for more time. Reassurance. Promises. Empty words I’ve never had to give before.
I don’t panic.
I watch. I listen.
Because when things fall apart, they never do it all at once. First, there’s a wobble. Then a crack. Then the foundation buckles.
By day three, the ground starts to shift.
Two of my major suppliers pull the plug. No explanation. No apology. Just a call from their legal departments and a sharp, impersonal goodbye.
I make calls—quiet ones. Push through backchannels and old debts. No one wants to say what I already know.
One of my clubs in SoHo goes dark for the night. A shipment was “delayed.” The excuse is sloppy, the lie obvious.
And now?
The Masquerade is running low on premium stock.
That gets my attention.
The Masq doesn’t run out of anything. Especially not the high-end inventory. That floor runs like a machine—flawless, indulgent, and silent.
But the cracks are forming there too.
So I strategize.
I don’t flinch. I don’t bark. I start moving pieces. Calling in favors. Securing secondary suppliers. Old contacts I haven't spoken to in years suddenly find themselves back in my orbit.
Because my empire won’t crumble.
Not while I still draw breath.
But deep down, I know what this is.
This is Lorenzo tightening the noose. Cutting me off at the knees without ever stepping into the ring.
No threats. Mateo was an example to the others.
Lorenzo is sitting back now with nothing but silence surrounding him—and the slow, deliberate collapse of my support.
He’s isolating me.
Trying to see how far he can push before I break.
But he should know better.
I wasn’t mafia royalty like him—handed an empire, born to rule it with Daddy’s blessing and an army of yes-men at his back.
No.
I was an eight year old boy who watched his father swallow a bullet to pay back a debt.
A boy that served in the mafia’s ranks, until the little prince got scared the empire would be given to me, instead of him.
But I didn’t want that. I left. Left Lorenzo to his inheritance and built my own empire
One built from blood and grit.
I clawed my way up with broken knuckles and broken rules.
And I’ll survive him .
I just have to make sure the city survives us .
Across the room, Sienna’s perched at my desk like she’s always belonged there—phone in one hand, notes in the other, her brow furrowed in that determined way that makes her look equal parts dangerous and divine.
Whatever magic she’s working…it’s effective.
She doesn’t use my name. Doesn’t mention The Ledger. Just plays it smart—saying the right things, pitching new angles, turning vendors who had already said no into eager saviors desperate to be part of the story she’s spinning.
It’s impressive as hell.
In one hour, she’s done what took me three days and a half bottle of whiskey.
By the time she hangs up the last call, my network of clubs and restaurants is back on its feet. Product en route. Deliveries secured. Inventory stocked for at least another week.
I didn’t give her The Masquerade.
That bubble still needs to hold.
She hasn’t connected me to the Devil who stalks the top floors of that club yet—and I want to keep it that way. I want to see how long she’ll look into his eyes and still not realize they’re mine.
For now, the other locations will over-order and funnel stock to The Masq quietly.
Let Lorenzo think the cracks are elsewhere.
Let him think I’m bleeding out from a dozen little wounds, not realizing where I’m actually holding the line.
As she works, so do I.
I tap open my phone and send a quick message to Killian.
LUCIAN: How’s Sera?
The reply is fast.
KILLIAN: Healing. Pissed. Ready to start killing people.
KILLIAN: Same as the rest of us. When do we hit back?
I stare at the message for a moment. Then type:
LUCIAN: Tonight.
My thumb hovers over the screen for just a moment before I hit send.
Because I know Lorenzo.
I know what makes him tick. What makes him reckless. And what makes him vulnerable .
Loyalty.
Not just the kind his men have for him—the kind he demands from everyone else. Absolute. Blind. Unquestioning. It's his pride and his flaw, wrapped in one. The very thing he leans on... and the very thing I can use to break him.
Because loyalty makes a man predictable.
And predictability? That’s leverage.
Most of his biggest shipments still run through the waterfront—guns, drugs, cash—moved in silence through rotting docks and dark corners. Guarded by men who are well-paid and well-armed but not half as careful as they should be.
I forward Killian everything.
The location.
The schedule.
The order.
Intercept the shipment, burn the drugs, destroy the weapons.
Leave nothing.
It’ll cost him millions. A direct hit to the gut of his operation. But I’m not after his wallet.
Money can be replaced.
Power? Reputation?
Those bleed slowly. Painfully. Publicly.
As the text sends, I glance toward the window, the skyline cutting sharp through the dusk.
LUCIAN: Leave a bottle behind.
Not just any bottle. Our bottle.
The same whiskey I brought to his warehouse when I tried to end this before it began. The peace offering he shattered like it meant nothing.
Let’s see if he recognizes it now.
If he understands what it means when the message is returned.
This is still his final chance.
Because whether I want this war or not…
One thing is certain.
I’m not going to lose it.
With the messy business handled—orders given, fire set to rise—I shift my focus back to something far more dangerous.
My little rabbit.
Or rather, my Angel.
It’s been days since I touched her. Since I corrected her. Since I watched her pant beneath my hand and bite back a moan like she could fight the need clawing at her throat.
I shouldn’t be the one training her. I knew that the moment I saw her. I should’ve passed her file off, let someone else shape her.
But then I saw the way the other men looked at her. That mixer—those hands reaching, those gazes lingering—was all it took.
She’s mine to mold.
Mine to command.
Mine to ruin, if I choose.
Tonight, her lesson is different.
Less about rules. More about power. The kind that doesn’t come from spoken commands, but from silence, structure, presence.
She steps out of the bathroom, freshly touched up. I don’t speak—just motion her forward from my place in the leather armchair. Sleeves rolled, legs spread, watching her in contemplation.
“Bring me a whiskey,” I say simply.
She obeys without hesitation, crossing the office to pour a glass. Two fingers. Two cubes. No more, no less. Her hands are steady, but her breathing isn’t.
I take the glass and watch her. “The men who hold these contracts… they crave control. What they’re buying is submission.”
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing with the motion. I track it like a fucking predator.
My eyes stay on hers as I take a slow sip. I lick the whiskey from my lower lip, and her gaze drops to my mouth. Predictable.
She wants more.
She always does.
I set the glass aside. “Come here.”
She steps forward, cautious but curious. The last correction clearly did its job, but I know her—know her bratty little fire only simmers beneath the surface.
“Give me your foot.”
She blinks. “Why?”
I don’t answer. Just raise an eyebrow and hold out my hand.
She sighs, placing one palm on my shoulder for balance as she lifts her heel. I slip it off carefully and set it beside my chair.
“The other.”
No protest this time. The second shoe joins the first, and I lean back again, the picture of ease.
“On your knees.”
She gasps.
I want to see her lips around my thumb, her mouth worshipping anything I give her. But this isn’t about what I want.
Not yet.
“Knees,” I repeat, voice low. I tap the spot two feet in front of me. “Right there, Angel.”
She lowers herself slowly, wary. Uncertain.
“Sit back on your heels. Relax.”
That earns me a snort and a roll of her eyes.
My palm twitches. The brat is back.
“Knees apart, Angel.” The nickname makes her cheeks flush—still so innocent in ways she doesn’t even realize.
She slides her knees out, but not far enough. Testing me.
“More.”
Her jaw clenches, but she complies. God, I could play this game for hours.
“Hands on your thighs.”
She does it, but her posture’s off—slouched, shoulders rounded. She’s not using her training.
I rise and move behind her.
My hand smooths down her leg, gently widening her thighs the way I want them.
She tenses and tries to relax with a broken exhale.
I brush her long auburn hair to one side, baring the line of her neck. I don’t kiss her. I just lean in, speaking close to her ear, my breath warm on her skin.
“Everything about a Ledger Companion is a piece of art. Always on display.”
I correct her posture, one hand at her shoulder, the other at the small of her back.
“I’m paying for these round tits,” I murmur, letting my hand skim the side of one breast. My thumb teases beneath the curve.
She exhales sharply. “Lucian…”
That voice.
She’s wet for me. Her legs part just slightly more.
I don’t reward her. Just continue, letting my hand trail from her hip down her thigh—bare today, no stockings.
While I enjoy those stirrups, I like this even more.
Bare skin, soft and warm under my hands.
The hem of her dress rises as I stroke up her thigh again. “Even if they don’t touch you… even if you never fuck them… you’re still a masterpiece they’re paying to enjoy.”
I move back to my chair, seated like a king while she kneels, flushed and needy.
Her eyes are blown wide with lust, her cheeks pink, her chest rising with shallow breaths.
I down the rest of my whiskey. “Let’s try again.”
She stands, finally getting the game. A temptress. A siren in a short dress and no shoes. Her hips sway as she moves.
“Of course,” she purrs near my ear as she bends to take the glass.
She returns with fresh whiskey. This time, she holds my gaze as she lowers herself.
“Knees, Angel.”
She starts to look down.
“Eyes on me.”
Those blue eyes snap back up instantly.
“Good.”
She assumes the position again—but not quite right.
Her knees are too close.
The smirk on her lips tells me she knows it.
She’s asking for a correction.
Begging for it.
She hands me the whiskey. “Here you go… sir.”
The pause is intentional. Calculated.
I take the glass slowly, leaning in.
“Thank you.”
Then I slide my hand between her thighs, just my fingertips.
So slow it almost kills me.
She pants, her mouth parted, her eyes half-lidded.
But she does it. She spreads wider.
I keep going until her legs are parted just how I want them—then I pull back.
Like it was nothing.
Like my cock isn’t rock hard beneath these slacks.
I take a slow pull of whiskey, savoring the burn. She’s finally still—sitting in the quiet with her knees tucked under her, eyes slightly glazed with submission. No twitching. No fidgeting.
She’s learning.
Then, quietly, almost offhandedly, I ask, “Will you fuck them?”
A simple question.
Expected, even.
It’s the reality of her role, of the contracts she’s here to take. And yet it sends a flash of rage straight through me—hot and violent, sitting just under the surface. I keep it buried, locked tight behind a calm exterior. But it’s there.
What catches my attention even more is the flicker of shock that flashes across her face before she masks it again. Her voice is smooth, almost indifferent.
“Probably.”
A lie.
I remember her orientation form. The hesitant checkboxes. The hesitations Eve noted.
Inexperienced. Curious. Untouched in ways her bratty confidence tries to hide.
I nod once, slow. “I would like the fire turned on.”
The shift in subject is subtle, but she registers it quickly. That’s one thing about Sienna—she catches things. Even when she pretends not to.
She moves to stand.
“Let me get that for you,” she says, voice soaked in honey and sex. Her knee lands between my thighs on the cushion, one hand bracing behind me on the chair.
She reaches across for the remote, her leg pressing into my cock as she leans.
That’s it, baby.
Those full tits are so close, my mouth waters wanting to know how tight her little brown nipples are.
My jaw flexes, but I remain still.
The fire roars to life behind her, blue flame dancing behind glass as she settles back on the floor like a fucking goddess returning to her throne. Still kneeling. Still wrong.
I eye her legs and click my tongue. “This won’t do.”
I set the whiskey aside and slide to the edge of my chair.
She’s quiet—watching me.
Waiting.
One hand strokes along her jaw, tender. The other travels lower. Her breath hitches, eyes shining with anticipation.
But she’s still missing the point.
“The art of seduction,” I murmur, as if reading from a script only she and I understand.
“You’ve been a bad girl, Sienna.”
She gasps as my hand strokes lower between her legs.
“You’ve let me seduce you, Angel.”
I reach her panties, touch featherlight over the fabric. Her eyes flutter shut when my fingers slide down the length of her pussy.
“Look at you,” I whisper. “Soaked for me.”
Her lips part. Her eyes open again, heavy with lust, pleading without words. She wants me to slip under the lace. To really feel her.
But I can’t.
Because if I touch her bare?
I won’t stop.
I lean in closer, my lips barely an inch from hers. Her eyes close, expecting a kiss.
“Eyes on me, Angel.”
She opens them instantly.
My fingers slide up again, teasing the same maddening pattern. Down. Up. A promise. A denial.
She’s practically trembling. I can feel it in her thighs.
“You’d let me fuck you right now,” I murmur.
It’s not a question. It’s a fact.
“Your contracts will try to take everything from you. Every inch. Every sound. Every drop of cum you have to give.”
I press more firmly against her clit through the thin fabric, grinding slow circles with my fingers.
“They’ll milk you for it, Angel.”
She moans softly, legs spreading wider, the sound of desperation caught in her throat.
“But you…” My voice dips lower. “You must always be the one who seduces. The one who lets them think they’re in control.”
I lean in, mouth grazing hers without ever touching. “You must always remain in control.”
She nods, wild with need. “Yes,” she pants.
Two more strokes. Slow. Precise.
Then I pull away.
Just like that.
“Good,” I say, reaching for my whiskey. “You’re dismissed.”
Her breath is uneven. Her hands tremble. Her eyes flicker between rage and need—warring inside her the same way they’re tearing through me.
But then, just like that, the heat turns.
All that want ignites into fire.
She gets up with a sharp huff, snatching her heels from beside the chair. She doesn’t even bother putting them back on—just clutches them in one hand like a weapon.
Her steps are silent on the carpet, but the fury radiating from her is loud.
She reaches the door. Flings it open. Doesn’t look back.
And she doesn’t close it, either.
It swings there behind her like a challenge.
I lift my glass and take a slow sip of whiskey, the burn sliding down my throat like victory.
Because I know exactly where she’s going.
And exactly who she’ll run to.
She can claw and kick and scream all she wants.
But in the end?
She’ll always find her way back to me.
Me… or the Devil. But either way, it’s me.