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Fuck you, Mr. Hawthorne.

I’ve been so foolish for letting myself fall for him last night. So stupid for believing he might save me.

Fuck you very much.

8

JAMES

The auction house isn’t as packed as it is on any other night.

Not that I ever visit here. I oversee the operations.

According to the rules of our partnership, Oliver reports directly to me. He tells me all about how the place fills to the brim. If the employees we housed in the same block—the one we bought years ago—have any trouble, he lets me know about that too.

I look around the main floor, at the space we renovated when we got the property. We demolished the six bedrooms in favor of opening up the space to create a ballroom-like appearance.

The only remaining rooms are the kitchen, the dining area, and the area behind the stage, where the women prepare and wait to be called on stage.

What used to be a home that housed families for centuries is now a decadent space for women to sell themselves to the highest bidder.

Antique chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, casting a uniform amount of light across the open space and the hardwood floors.

A dim, warm light and nothing more. Too bright, and it’d hurt their sense of privacy. Too dark, and someone might entertain the idea of sneaking in their cameras or phones.

For today, we’ve set it up so that a few rows of chairs are aligned in front of the stage. In each auction, the buyers occupy them, their eyes glued to the bid caller, Starlee, and the women she invites on stage.

Our security team is responsible for maintaining the peace. They roam the area in their black tuxes and the guns that are shoved in the holsters on their pants, much like they do now.

A dozen accidents have happened here in total over the years. A dozen buyers that our men had to put down.

Oliver gets off on that shit. On running this place.

That’s why I assumed our regular operations would be enough to satisfy him. That he’d agree that our family’s rituals were unnecessary. That they were fucking bullshit.

Well.

I keep the disdain out of my expression, not giving any of the fifty-seven buyers a glimpse into my soul.

Oliver and I handpicked each and every person who’s walked through these doors.

Fifty of the most influential men and women in the state of New York. Two high-ranking members from the FBI. Two officials from DC. Three of the heads of the New York Mafia.

Some of them are young. It’s their first time here. For others, it’s the second time around.

I had to help Oliver, had to be a part of the process, despite the bile rising in my throat when I went through their names.

Oliver’s hackles were up ever since I’d suggested we drop this.

True, I could’ve shot him. Wouldn’t have lost sleep over it. But killing him on a whim without a plan would’ve been reckless. Could’ve raised suspicions, invited the others to turn on me.

And by others, I also mean my son.

The way he thought he had any claim on Ophelia…

My mouth snaps shut before my lips can twist into a snarl.

Enough of that. He might change. He might not.