2. Sterling
Sterling
“You’re sure he’s going to be there?” Hawke’s voice fills the room as I step inside his office.
He’s sitting in his chair, poised as ever at the end of the large oval table, his fingers linked and resting against his chin.
His large build fills the chair he’s in; years of working out in a miserable prison gym have allowed him to build strength and muscle.
“I’m sure,” Cash says, twirling his signature blade between his fingers. “Scouts confirmed it.”
Despite Hawke’s concrete demeanor, Cash isn’t bothered by it one bit. He’s the most nonchalant out of all of us. The psychotic one—if you will—but then again, aren’t we all a little crazy?
Cash’s boots are kicked up on the polished oak table, legs crossed at the ankles as he stares at the ceiling. He’s relaxing so far back in his chair, it’s almost reaching the floor behind him.
I take a seat opposite Cash, to the left of Hawke, who barely glances my way; his focus is on the map of the city pinned to the table in front of him.
“You can guarantee access?” Hawke inquires, his tone level yet underscored with a coldness that only someone who has nothing left to lose can hold.
Cash shoves a hand into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a scrumpled envelope. “Have I ever let you down?” he smirks, sliding the envelope across the table.
Hawke takes it, opening the flap and pulling out a not-so pristine piece of paper. He takes a minute to read over the words before closing it.
“Personal invitation?” he quirks a brow at Cash.
“Yeah,” he replies, clearing his throat, “sorry it’s a bit roughed up. Messenger isn’t in my job role.”
Hawke’s lips kick up ever so slightly. Not enough to call it a smile, but there’s amusement in that small action, which tells me we’re getting somewhere with his temperament.
It’s been almost three months since Hawke was released from prison on account of an ‘admin error’ courtesy of yours truly, but that’s three months too long for him.
Hawke wants to get his revenge now, not tomorrow.
His mood is growing increasingly volatile by the day, and since he’s been back in the city, rumors are already circulating.
His presence has been acknowledged, and even though he’s safe in Sinner’s territory, that doesn’t mean shit to the Kings.
Passing the piece of paper to me, I scan over the words printed below a gold crest, all the way down to the signature at the bottom of the page. An invitation to the Mayor’s Gala in a few week’s time.
“Signed by the Mayor himself?” I confirm, raising a brow at Hawke. “How did you get this?”
Cash kicks his feet off the table, his boots slamming onto the ground as he leans forward. With his elbows resting on the table, he points his knife at me. “Don’t get jealous on me now, Sterling. You’re invited, too.”
“I’m with Sterling. I wanna know how you got this?” Hawke demands, snatching the invitation from me. “If this is—”
“What?” Cash snarls, snapping to his feet.
“You think I’d fuck about with this kind of shit?
” The hurt in his voice can’t be disguised.
For as much as Cash is the joker out of the three of us, he’s still a loyal fucker beneath that crazy exterior.
One who would stand in front of a bullet for anyone he cares about. And that’s not many people.
“No,” Hawke sighs. “I know you wouldn’t. I just…”
“Then accept it for what it is, Sinclair. A fucking in to get to the King himself.”
“Look, we’re all on edge right now. The Kings are pushing into our territory more and more each day. We just need to take a breath and work through our strategy.”
“Right,” Hawke nods.
“Right?” I urge Cash, taking in his already shaky form.
His breaths are short and sharp, his barely contained rage simmering beneath the surface.
His hand grips the hilt of his knife, and all it would take is one wrong word to make him snap.
Cash is a wildcard; unwavering when it comes to loyalty, but a loose cannon if you get on the wrong side of him.
Not to mention he’s unpredictable at the best of times.
We all have talents, skills that separate us from one another, and it just so happens that Cash is the blood-spiller.
“Cash?” I growl.
After a beat, he resumes his earlier position; boots on the table, knife spinning between his fingers. “Right,” he mumbles in confirmation.
“So, what’s our next move?” I ask Hawke.
He’s the brains behind this whole thing.
For ten years, he’s been planning how this is all going to go down.
From the gang wars that penetrate The King’s territory to the subtle threats that put more pressure on them to make mistakes, everything has been planned down to the last drop of blood.
“Nothing yet,” Hawke states.
“You’ve been looking for an opening,” Cash grumbles. “This is it.”
“I said no!” Hawke barks. “Attending this event isn’t part of the plan. It’s not where I want it to go down.”
“Then where?” Cash ask.
Standing up from his chair, Hawke adjusts the cuffs on his sleeve. “Revenge is all about timing, location, information. We start at the bottom of my list and work up.”
He offers a nod to both of us before he makes his way to the door.
“Fucking revenge,” he mutters, bouncing to his feet. “I hate fucking waiting. I want action.” He starts dodging and ducking the air as he thrusts his knife forward. He puts on a show as he shadow fights nothing, his breaths never faltering.
“Sit down, Voss, before you hurt yourself,” I laugh. I head over to the drinks cart in the corner, pouring out two healthy measures of whiskey. I hand one to Cash as I return to the table, taking my seat once more.
He throws back the contents of his glass without a second thought, then drops back into his chair. “You know what really hurts?”
I sip my drink slowly. I’ve never been one to rush the simple pleasures—fine whiskey being one of them—so I savor every mouthful like it’ll be my last. “What?” I finally ask Cash, who is now spinning his chair around like a kid as he stares at the ceiling.
“His accusation.”
I lean back in my chair, crossing one ankle over my knee. “You know he didn’t mean it. He’s got a lot going on in his head.”
“Yeah, but he should know I’d never fuck around with this. This…this shit is important to all of us.” He stops spinning to face me once again. “How long has he known us?”
“A lifetime,” I answer, taking another sip of the amber liquid.
“Exactly! His pain is our pain.”
“Except you weren’t the one incarcerated,” I point out.
“But I might as well have been. When he was…” Cash starts to choke on his words, and I know that this is hard for him to relive. Still, he fights through it. “When he was put away, you know shit wasn’t the same.”
“You weren’t alone,” I say softly.
“But I was.”
I glance down at my glass, swirling the whiskey around and around to distract me from the words I know Cash is about to say. The same words that have haunted me every day for the last decade.
“Hawke was out, you disappeared…” Cash pauses to rest his elbows on the table. “You both fucking left me.”
“There was shit we had to take care of. Hawke was planning, I was—”
“You were what?” he grits out, eyes narrowed so thinly I can barely see his pupils.
I hate how shit went down all those years ago.
If I had it my way, we would’ve handled it years before.
But at the time, we weren’t in charge; Hawke’s dad was.
He was the one working with the Kings. He was the one who settled business the proper way.
The Kings betrayed us, and nobody could’ve anticipated what happened next.
“Doesn’t matter,” I grumble, placing my glass on the table and standing up. “What’s done is done, and we need to focus on the plan going forward.”
Cash huffs, but he accepts what I’ve said and resumes playing with his knife. “You’re never going to tell me where you disappeared for six years, are you?”
“Does it matter?” I question.
He shrugs, his focus on the tip of his blade that he presses into his forefinger until he draws blood. “It might,” he tears his gaze away from the blade to look at me, sucking his finger. “Guess we’ll never know.”
My veins burn with shame, with guilt I’ve carried for over a decade. The three of us have been through hell—each of us feeding our own demons in the name of revenge. It’s the one thing that keeps me up at night, knowing I can’t undo what’s been done… or what I’m still willing to do.
I hate feeling like this, like I’ve made too many wrong choices.
Even though I know I’ve made them for the right reasons, it doesn’t detract from the guilt that weaves through my bloodstream.
One day, I’ll look back on everything and know I did what I had to.
That day is still eons away, but each day is another closer to the finish line.
I turn away from Cash before he can catch the lie on my face. For all of his flaws and attributes, he’s the most observant. Where we notice errors, he notices patterns. Where we analyze actions, he dissects vibes like they’re a fucking book.
I decide to leave the office before Cash picks up on what I’m not telling and rakes me through the coals for it.
There’s only so long I can hold his gaze without him starting to peel things back, layer by layer, until he finds something worth digging his claws into.
And right now, I don’t have the patience—or the answers—to deal with that.
Heading back into the club, I bypass the VIP rooms that are more like private sex dungeons, their doors half-shut, muffling the sounds that still manage to bleed through—low moans, sharp cries, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
It’s all controlled chaos behind those walls, curated indulgence for people who want to feel something without consequences.
Vice calls to those who seek a thrill. We keep the tameness out on the dance floor, the dirty deeds concealed by the shadows and music.
But for those who are driven by kinks and darker cravings, there’s a whole other world tucked just out of sight—one that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t judge, and doesn’t care how far you’re willing to go as long as you can pay the price.
I’m making my way back to the bar when a glimpse of blonde hair catches my eye. Dark eyes watch me from the other end of the corridor, her lips curling up in a delicious smile that I wouldn’t mind seeing beneath me.
She caught my eye earlier, only she was talking to Cash then.
Something about her called to me, which is why I felt the need to rescue her before Cash did real damage.
He’s not exactly subtle with his intentions.
Or at least I don’t think he is. I can read him a mile off, which is why I stepped in.
There’s only so many fucking bodies we can hide when he gets his way with them, and a beauty like her doesn’t deserve the kind of deeds my best friend has in mind. She wouldn’t survive it.
She saunters towards me, and I stop in my tracks. Her tight body is squeezed into a tiny gold dress that shimmers against her skin, her toned legs eating up the distance.
When she finally stops in front of me, she tilts her head in the same way she did earlier. All innocence and fire, and I can’t seem to tear myself away from her.
She doesn’t speak straight away, and that silence isn’t empty—it’s deliberate.
Calculated. Her gaze drags over me like she’s taking inventory, slow and unapologetic, as if she already knows exactly what she’s looking at and just wants to enjoy the view a little longer.
Up close, she’s even more dangerous than I remember.
Not because of anything obvious like a weapon or a threat, but because she looks like she knows the effect she has and isn’t afraid to use it.
“Thought you might’ve disappeared,” she says finally, her voice smooth. Her fingers trail lightly along the edge of my jacket, not quite touching me, but close enough that I feel it anyway.
I huff out a quiet breath, letting my gaze drop deliberately to where her hand hovers before dragging it back up to meet her eyes.
“Not my style,” I reply, my tone easy, but there’s an edge beneath it. “I tend to stick around when something interesting catches my attention.”
Her smile widens, slow and knowing, like she’s already decided she’s won something I haven’t realised we’re playing for yet. “And have you found anything interesting tonight?”
My gaze dips again, this time not even pretending to be subtle as it drags over the gold fabric clinging to her body. Taking in the way it hugs her waist, the length of her legs, the confidence in the way she stands like she owns the space around her. When I meet her eyes again, I don’t soften it.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I have.”
She steps a fraction closer, just enough that the scent of her—something warm, expensive, and just a little too addictive—cuts through the heavier smells of the club.
“Good,” she says quietly, her voice dropping a notch, like she’s letting me in on something. “I’d hate to think you were wasting your time.”
I tilt my head slightly, studying her, letting the moment stretch instead of rushing it. “That depends,” I say, my voice low now, matching hers. “You gonna make it worth it?”
A soft laugh slips from her lips, light but not careless, her fingers finally brushing against my chest as she leans in just enough to blur the line between casual and intentional.
“Maybe,” she teases, her eyes flicking to my mouth for half a second before returning to my intrigued gaze. “If you can keep up.”
I let out a quiet chuckle, the sound rougher than I intend as I close the space she created without quite touching her. “Careful,” I murmur. “I don’t like losing.”
Her smile widens, something sharper breaking through the polish. “Then don’t.”
For a second neither of us moves, the tension settling thick and charged between us, the kind that doesn’t need to be named to be understood. As I hold her gaze, I realize this isn’t just flirting for her.
It’s a challenge.
And I’ve never been very good at walking away from those.