Chapter 34
T he sun breaks over the city like nothing's wrong.
I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, espresso in hand, watching the skyline blush with light. The quiet hum of the building stirs around me—elevators starting, voices rising from the lobby, morning security sweeps being logged.
On the surface, it's just another day.
But the smoke still lingers. The ashes of Lorenzo’s warehouses still cling to the wind.
That was three nights ago. Simultaneous fires. No alarms. No evidence. Just charred wreckage by morning and millions in unsalvageable inventory turned to dust. I wanted to make him feel exposed. Vulnerable. Unprepared.
But last night?
Last night was personal.
While he slept in that fortress of a mansion with his guards posted and his family tucked in safely upstairs… I walked right through his front fucking door.
Jaxon took care of the cameras. My men took care of the locks. And I took care of the art.
Every piece.
The DeLuca family’s prized legacy—paintings, portraits, lost artifacts… the gallery of their bloodline—gone. Stolen in silence. Not just the Da Vinci, not just the Monet or the war-era contraband that’s passed hands through black market channels for decades.
No.
It’s the portraits that matter.
The generations of DeLuca’s, hung like royalty along the grand hallway staircase. Lorenzo’s wedding portrait—him in black, her in white. Their son, maybe six years old, caught laughing in an oil painting positioned near the piano room. Dozens of frames on side tables, in alcoves, hanging over the fireplace.
All gone.
All mine.
Arranged in a tidy pile in the center of an abandoned warehouse. A single can of gasoline set right beside them. Just enough fuel to make a very clear point.
I take another sip of espresso. The bitterness is welcome.
Right on time, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I don’t need caller ID to know who it is.
I answer with silence.
“You arrogant, thieving son of a bitch! ”
Lorenzo’s voice is shaking with rage. Not the cold, calculating kind I respect—but wild, guttural, almost incoherent.
Good. That means he saw the feed.
“I should have fucking killed you when I had the chance,” he snaps.
“You tried,” I say mildly. “Didn’t go well for you.”
“You broke into my home , Vale.”
I take another sip.
“You really should update your security. It's embarrassing.”
“You stole from me.”
“No,” I say, walking to my desk and tapping the tablet with one finger. The live video feed loads instantly, piping straight into Lorenzo’s screen on the other end. “I relocated some things. Safekeeping. But if you'd like them back…”
I angle the camera.
The artwork. The frames. The family portraits. All of it stacked neatly in the center of the concrete floor.
Then I tilt the angle—just enough for him to see the red gas can at the edge of the frame.
I hear his breathing change.
“You’re fucking insane.”
“No,” I say calmly. “I’m offering a solution. You want to keep what’s left of your life? You end this. Right now. Agree to a truce.”
He laughs bitterly, but there's panic underneath it. “You think I’d surrender to a man who runs whores in designer heels?”
“Careful,” I warn softly. “I don't take well to people disrespecting my employees. You know that.”
He scoffs. “If you do this—if you touch that art—you’ll regret it. You don’t come back from that.”
I lean back in my chair.
“No, Lorenzo. You don’t come back from this.”
Silence.
I let it stretch until he speaks again.
But he doesn’t.
So, I continue. “You want to come for my empire? Fine. But don’t pretend like I started this. Your brother abducted one of my Companions and nearly got her killed. An innocent bystander who stood too close to him when his debt collectors came.”
I pause. Let it hang.
“History is bound to repeat itself if you don’t give up your pride and admit he got what was coming to him.”
More silence because he knows I’m fucking right. His pride just won’t let him admit it.
Then I drop the final card.
“Is that the price you’re ready to pay?”
A long inhale on his end. No answer.
“I’ll give you forty-eight hours,” I say. “And then I burn it all.”
The line clicks dead.
I stare at the phone for a beat longer, then set it down, draining the rest of my espresso.
He’ll call back.
Because he’s not just running scared now, he’s cornered.
And a man like Lorenzo DeLuca?
Cornered men either surrender.
Or they keep fighting a war they can’t win.
* * *
I t’s nearly noon, and I’m one shallow breath away from snapping.
Sienna has been driving me insane all fucking morning. A quiet, calculated menace in lipstick and heels—my personal hell dressed in black and white.
She’s such a fucking brat.
A beautiful, infuriating, untouchable brat. And my palm is aching to teach her another lesson.
She walked into the office this morning like she owns it—short, tight dress clinging to her curves like sin. Black and white, classy at first glance… until you actually look.
Because it’s short. So fucking short I can see the shadow of the garter straps when she walks.
Stirrups.
She’s wearing fucking stirrups.
Black, sheer stockings attached to garters beneath that tiny little dress—and she’s not shy about it either. I know because she’s made damn sure I’ve seen them.
All day.
Meeting after meeting, she’s a quiet little shadow just behind the guests, collecting papers, handing out coffee, standing just out of view of the conference camera.
But not my view.
Never mine.
She knows exactly where I sit at the head of the table, exactly where my eyes land when someone’s speaking.
And she’s always in that space—leaning over the sideboard, picking up a file she “dropped,” arms straight, legs straighter, ass out, dress sliding high enough that those garter straps peek out and taunt me like little whispers of disobedience.
Smirk locked in place.
Message received.
Please punish me, sir.
Fuck.
But that’s not even the worst part.
It’s the panties.
Red. Dark. Soaked.
I saw them when she crossed her legs during the morning finance briefing. One inch too wide, just long enough for the hem of her dress to pull, just long enough for me to see the thin lace stretched over her soaked little cunt.
That wet patch?
It’s not innocent.
It’s not accidental.
She’s getting off on this.
Turning herself on by driving me to the edge while I sit through back-to-back boardroom briefings, pretending to give a shit about cost reports while my cock is hard as granite and my blood is boiling.
She’s doing it on purpose.
Testing me. Poking the bear. Playing with fire.
The conference call ends.
I don’t even wait for the final bullshit pleasantries.
I slam my laptop shut with a sharp crack , ending the meeting mid-sentence. My jaw is locked, hand clenched around the edge of the desk as I breathe through the storm building in my chest.
I hear her voice before I see her.
Soft. Sweet. Sweet enough to make me fucking dangerous.
“What’s the matter?” she says, honey dripping from every syllable. “You seem tense.”
I don’t answer.
I just slide my chair back, slow and deliberate, rotating it toward her. Letting her see exactly what she’s been doing to me.
She saunters forward like she owns the fucking room.
That black-and-white dress hugging her hips like it was made to be torn off. Her heels click with every step—black leather, sharp enough to kill. In her hand, a crystal glass of whiskey—my favorite, neat, precisely two fingers.
She stops in front of me. And then— fuck me —she drops.
Right to her knees.
She slips her shoes off one at a time, placing them neatly beside her. Then she settles, slowly, into the pose I taught her. The one I praised her for. Back straight, shoulders soft, chest high and proud. Knees wide. Hands resting perfectly on those silky, creamy thighs.
Her eyes lift to mine, calm and clear—but there’s fire underneath.
“Can I help you relax… sir ?”
My cock throbs behind my zipper.
It’s not the whiskey.
It’s not the posture.
It’s not even the word she dripped like sin between her lips.
It’s the defiance.
The way she looks up at me like she’s innocent—like she isn’t the fucking reason I’m one heartbeat away from bending her over this desk and ruining every inch of her.
And she knows it.
This isn’t submission.
It’s seduction.
And she’s about to learn that when it comes to me… they’re not the same thing.
I take the whiskey from her hand and set it on the desk without a word.
I’m two seconds from grabbing her by the throat and telling her exactly how I plan to use that mouth—when a soft knock hits the doorframe.
Twice.
Fuck.
“Knock, knock,” Eve says, already halfway into the room.
Sienna moves fast .
She ducks her head and crawls under my desk with the elegance of a predator, and suddenly I’m sitting here—raging hard, heart slamming against my ribs—as my training manager walks in like she owns the place.
Oh, nothing to see here, Eve. Just my brat trainee who’s been edging me through meetings for three hours now nesting under my desk like a well-trained little whore.
Perfect.
“Lucian?” Eve says brightly, dropping into her usual leather chair across from me. “I need a word.”
“Not a good time,” I grit.
Under the desk, Sienna settles between my legs like she fucking belongs there. She does. And she knows it.
Her hands glide up my thighs, slow and featherlight, like she’s feeling out how far she can push me. My breath catches, but I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
I can feel her smile when she finds my belt buckle.
I grip the arms of my chair, knuckles whitening, and force my gaze to meet Eve’s as she crosses one leg over the other and starts talking.
“I’ve been thinking about shifting how I handle contracts,” she says, smoothing down her pencil skirt. “I’m still one of the top-requested Companions, but I’m starting to feel like quantity is wearing me down. I want exclusivity.”
Sienna opens my belt. The click of the buckle sounds like thunder in my ears.
“Exclusive contracts?” I ask, voice even—too even.
“Mm-hmm,” Eve nods. “Same clientele. Fewer engagements. I’d be more like… a girlfriend for hire. A permanent Companion. Intimacy. Familiarity. All the benefits of a relationship without the messy strings.”
My zipper slides down.
My cock springs free—and Sienna’s fingers wrap around it like she was born for this. Warm. Tight. Deliberate.
I force my jaw to stay loose, my breathing steady. “I’m assuming you have a few favorite clients in mind?”
She smirks. “Oh, you know me, Lucian. I always have favorites.”
Sienna doesn’t make a sound. She’s a fucking ghost down there. But her mouth is a furnace as it wraps around the head of my cock. Soft lips, wet heat, slow suction. I exhale through my nose like it’ll help. It doesn’t.
I nod once, pretending to consider Eve’s proposal while Sienna bobs lower—tongue teasing just under the crown. I slide my fingers through her hair, holding the side of her head.
A silent approval of my sneaky little minx under the desk.
“I’m just tired of surface-level chemistry,” Eve continues. “I want something deeper. Something where the client values… consistency. ”
Sienna slides deeper. Her tongue flattens under my cock as she begins to build a rhythm, stroking me with her mouth, her hand twisting at the base, every movement designed to destroy me.
I grunt— just quiet enough to pass for agreement.
Eve quirks a brow. “You okay?”
“Fine.” My voice comes out rough. Too rough. “Whiskey’s strong.”
She shrugs.
“Anyway, I figured I’d take on three… maybe four clients at most. And I’d still be available for Ledger events. Just less public, more refined.”
Sienna hums around me.
It’s over.
The vibration shoots through me like lightning. My balls draw tight, my body taut with restraint, and I can’t move. Can’t fuck up. Can’t lose composure—not with Eve sitting ten feet away rambling about client portfolios while her trainee sucks the soul out of me beneath the desk.
I place one hand flat on the surface—trying to ground myself—the other tightens in her hair. I finally find my voice.
“We’ll… discuss it more in your review,” I manage. “Put your request in writing.”
“Of course,” Eve says, rising from her seat. “Thanks, Lucian. You really are the best boss.”
The fucking irony.
“Anytime,” I rasp, watching her disappear through the door.
As soon as it clicks shut, my head falls back against the leather.
Sienna doesn’t stop.
She fucking doubles down.
I groan—low, filthy, completely wrecked —as my hips lift off the chair and I come in her mouth, harder than I have in months.
She swallows every drop.
She looks up at me with those wide, shining eyes like she’s done something worth praise.
And she has.
But before I reward my good girl...
I have to punish my bad one.
I grab her by the arm and haul her up—not roughly, but with no room for argument. Her breath hitches as I lift her onto the desk and push her back with a firm hand on her chest.
Her legs fall open automatically.
Like she knows.
And fuck, does she look obscene like this—panties still damp, her lips, swollen and parted in a soft, breathless dare.
“Such a dirty mouth on such a sweet Angel,” I murmur, trailing my fingers over the curve of her inner thigh.
She shudders.
“Keep your legs open for me,” I command softly, bending down between them, my breath hot against her soaked lace. “While I suck every drop of cum from your drenched panties…”
My tongue flicks against the seam of red silk, and she whimpers.
“…my naughty little rabbit .”