CHAPTER TEN
MASON
Istill recall everything that happened last night.
Vincent’s entire plan would have been compromised if Saint hadn’t let me go. If he had put me in that cage, if he had tortured me like those other men he tortured, I would have broken.
But he let me go.
And the memory of last night, even as I walk into the company building on Monday, still lingers.
Sometimes I wish I were only dreaming, but the older, dangerous man had spared me, knowing full well I was lying.
He even asked me about my bruises, and correct me if I’m wrong, but the change in his demeanor when he saw what Vincent had done to my face sent a shiver down my spine.
The look on his face was lethal, and every time I recall what happened, it makes my blood boil.
I don’t want or need his protection. I can handle myself.
Besides that, I still carry the cold weight of his realization. He knows who I am. He knows. What makes it worse is that I spend over forty hours a week with him. Forty hours, which could lead to something else. Something unprofessional.
But Saint King can’t be unprofessional.
He values work more than anything in this world. Even passionless sex. I see it in the way he focuses in the office. The way he reviews the budget for the company and speaks in the boardroom.
God, why can’t I stop thinking of him?
I haven’t been able to stop since Friday night. I’d rather think of him than think of torturing my uncle.
I can’t deal with that stomach-churning feeling again.
I don’t want to.
When I get to my office, he’s already standing by the floor-to-ceiling window while he makes a phone call. I put my bag down on my desk and head into his office with his coffee order in my hand.
He sent me an email on the weekend, requesting that I always bring him caffeine to start his day. I had to stop by the cafeteria to get it. “Good morning,” I say and set down the coffee on his desk.
He turns around and looks at me, his face holding a cold expression. I swallow and straighten up while he ends the call and settles down at his desk.
“Thank you, Mason.”
“Is there anything else you need, sir?”
“No, that will be all.” He says without looking up from the file in front of him.
Is that it? Is he going to pretend that he didn’t have me up against the steel wall three nights ago?
“Alright.” I inhale sharply and march out of his office mechanically, sitting on my chair once I’ve gotten to my desk.
I start my day by turning on the computer, and all of a sudden, the door clicks open ahead of me. Kurt. What does he want now? “Why haven’t you responded to my request?”
I take my hands off my keyboard and look at him. “You sent in your request on Saturday. I don’t work on the weekend.” I say simply.
“Really?” he frowns. I barely look at him as I start up my computer. “I need that shit sorted out in an hour.”
“It’ll take longer than that.” I shrug.
“I don’t care. You should be at my desk in an hour.”
“I said it’ll take longer than that. If you can’t wait, find someone else to do it. I’m not your personal assistant. I already have enough on my plate.” I assert and look at him one last time.
“And I said I need it now.” He bites out, grunting out of frustration, voice fraying at the edges.
I don’t respond or even look in his direction.
He lingers in front of my desk for some time before he retreats, leaving the ghost of his demands behind.
I go through my emails, sorting through messages and putting events into Saint’s calendar. After a while, I leave my office to take a break in the company’s cafeteria.
The cafeteria stretches across an entire floor.
Open, bright with soft gray walls, floor-to-ceiling windows that bathe the space with the clean afternoon light, and long lines of marble-top tables, cozy seating pods lined with plush teal booths.
Pendant lights hang low, warm and golden.
Employees move in quiet streams. The air hums with low conversations and the whirr of espresso machines.
I step onto the floor and make my way to the counter, placing my order with the bright, dark-skinned young man.
I take a seat and wait for a few minutes before he appears with my order.
“Thank you.” I smile at him, and he nods before he returns to his post. I gorge through my meal quickly before I head back to the office.
As I appear in the hallway, Kurt hunches over his desk, putting his stuff into a brown box.
My brow narrows in confusion, but I don’t say a word. Then one of the workers looks me dead in the eye and mouths, “Boss called him into the office some minutes ago. I think he was fired.”
And the day isn’t even over yet.
As I return to my desk, my thoughts run wild with questions.
Did Kurt mishandle something important to the company?
Saint hadn’t asked me to look into him, only his former assistant, who was leeching off the company’s money.
Did he fire him because of the interaction we had earlier?
If this is some protective shit, no thank you, I don’t need a bodyguard, especially from a man like him.
I lift my eyes and stare at him, but his gaze rests on his laptop screen with the focus of a marksman.
He doesn’t look or even breathe in my direction.
And I pretend not to care.
I have to remember that Saint’s no different from the men who have taken my freedom away. Even though he’d deny it. These stupid thoughts and little feelings don’t mean anything at all.
I’m here to get something damaging enough to destroy this man. Not even the kind gesture of letting me off easy, or his unwanted protective instinct will stop me from saving myself the only way I know I can.
As I stare at my laptop, my phone buzzes, and my gaze drops to the bright screen. It’s a message from Saint. He needs me tonight. A trembling sigh spills through my nostrils as the weight of what happened that night lodges in my chest.
My mind has forgotten, but my body hasn’t.
And he’ll put me through it again.
SAINT
The stairwell opens into a room carved out of stone.
Smoke drifts in lazy coils from cigars in the hands of dangerous men who frequent this place.
Red Horn Club had been a product of the alliance between my grandfather and the Bishop Empire.
An alliance that no longer exists, although the club still pays returns to the Bishop family.
We are not enemies with them, but we are not friends either.
Father didn’t think it was wise to continue that alliance.
Leather chairs wrap around circular tables. Cards slap down in quick, confident flicks. A haze of cologne, whiskey, and sweat clings to the room, mixing with the bitter scent of tobacco. The floors are polished concrete, scuffed with the boots that frequent here.
High-rollers sit with their backs to the wall. Their watches gleam in the low light. Their are smiles thin. Their jackets hang low enough to hide weapons.
Two guards stand near the bar, massive and muscular in black tailored suits, with comms and guns.
A waiter stands behind a slab of obsidian marble stocked with top-shelf liquor. At the far back, behind soundproof glass, the private negotiation room watches everything. Deals happen in there. Deals that don’t need witnesses. The light inside is brighter, harsher.
“There’s our guy. James.” Oliver cocks his head toward the man in the dark corner of the club. Virgil slaps a pat on Oliver’s back and grunts as he marches toward the culprit.
The man notices the commotion and springs forward, maneuvering through the guards and bolting toward the elevator.
He’s a runner. Too bad I’m here to stop him.
As he approaches me, he pulls a blade from his jacket and aims for my throat, but my open palm takes the blow instead.
I slide him down, and he lands with a thud.
My boots slams into his face and he passes out.
“Wakey. Wakey.” Virgil grins maliciously in front of the young man. He’d taken him into the private room and tied him up to the metal chair. He straightens up and folds his arms across his chest with a grin. “Feeling better?” He asks.
“You know why you’re here.” I lean in and whisper behind him.
Virgil drags a second chair across the floor slowly, letting the metal legs screech. My gaze snaps up to him before I rest my hands on our captive’s shoulder.
“I’ll ask one question, and I need an answer, James. A simple yes or no would suffice.”
He nods, breathing raggedly as he stills and waits. “Did you meet up with this man here last week?” I cock my head to Oliver, who stands in the dark corner, supporting himself with crutches.
“No! I swear. I’m not lying.” His hands shake violently, grasping at nothing, fingers curling and uncurling in rhythm with his racing heart.
Virgil kicks the chair’s leg to rattle the man’s spine. A whimper leaks out of him before he can swallow it.
“You ran with my shipment. Who are you working for?”
“Nobody, I swear.” He stutters.
“But here you are. On a Monday night, at the exact time you promised to meet up with my friend, Oliver.”
Something cold slices through the air as Virgil pulls a knife from his breast pocket and flashes it at the young man. “Speak, James. I’m not as lenient as my brother.”
“Wait, wait…” He stutters, wheezing. “It was a one-time deal. This guy approached us at a restaurant. He wanted us to raid your docks and asked us to speak with him.” The words tumble out of him, half-formed and catching in his throat.
“Did you get a name?”
“No, I didn’t, but you can ask Shaun. He roped me into this. I swear I didn’t want to do it in the first place.”
“And you’re supposed to meet with Shaun where?”
“At the Sovereign. That’s where he wants us to meet next. That’s what Shaun sent. I can show you my texts with him.”
I straighten up and slap his shoulder. “Put him away, Virgil. If his shit doesn’t check out, kill him.” I look at the laceration in my hand and sigh.
“And where are you off to?”
“Do what I said, Virgil.” I grip the door and head to the elevator.
He was right to ask questions. After what happened with Mason and me the other night.
After seeing the way his gaze burned into me, he’s been stuck in my mind.
Taking roots where he shouldn’t. Not just that but when he told me, and I quote, “fuck you Saint.” Not even my father’s men are courageous enough to speak to me in that manner.
And I know I shouldn’t be anywhere near him for any reason, but here I am, taking the elevator ride to the top suite of the building.
Fuck, my life.
As the door claddings shut, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I stare at the screen for too long before I take the call.
It’s from my father. “Dad?” I answer.
“Yes, son. I just got an invite to your cousin’s unholy wedding.” He curses under his breath. “A male bride.” I see the disgust in his face even though he’s far away from me.
“Is it Syn?”
My question goes unanswered as he continues to speak in his own interest. “I think this is a golden opportunity for you to step into the spotlight with a wife.”
A wife.
This is exactly the conversation I’ve avoided so many times.
I’m focusing on building the empire. I’m doing what’s best for the family.
In this moment, this is what’s important to the syndicate.
A marriage.
“Who do you have in mind?” My jaw tightens with unsaid words. If father knew who I truly am, if he found out that I hadn’t killed the weak man in me, he’d carve me apart not just with his words, but with everything he has.
“She’s the only daughter and heir of the Royal Empire. The leading fashion company in this country. They are billionaires, son.” He chuckles behind the phone.
Every form of alliance for my father is a bid for power-play. A bid to expand the influence he has in the underworld. In this situation, I am not his son; I’m a tool for this bid. A Pawn dressed up as a King. And I have no choice but to give him exactly what he wants.
No more running. Just following the path already set in stone for you. That has always been the original plan.
Being brave. Being brutal. Being a man.
“Yes, Father. I would love to meet up with her.” I say.
“Great. Family Breakfast. This Thursday. Be prompt.”
That’s just less than three days from now.
“I will be there.” I hum the response with practiced ease.
“Okay, son.” He says before he hangs up.