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As a man who—despite the attempt on my life, despite that my woman was kidnapped, despite the newborn son waiting for me at home, despite the fact that my enemies might think I’m distracted––I’m still the deadliest son of a bitch they’ve ever sat across from.
That’s why I make them wait.
Vaughn, Christian, and I arrive twenty-two minutes late to the meeting, strolling through the double doors of Tuscan Trattoria, a high-end Italian restaurant in West Hollywood that serves as neutral ground for these kinds of conversations when I don’t host at the Blue Whiskey.
I don’t rush.
I don’t apologize.
I let them feel my absence before they feel my presence.
And when I finally sit, I don’t even acknowledge their impatience. I simply lean back, take in the room, and let the silence do the heavy lifting.
Two groups.
Two men sitting across from me—Santos Ortega and Vincent Morelli.
Santos is old-school Mexican cartel, an old lion with graying hair, a sharp suit, and sharper eyes. He’s been running things in his corner of the city for decades, and though he’s ruthless as hell, he’s also a businessman first.
Vincent Morelli, on the other hand, is young, brash, and barely controlling the Italian operations left behind by his recently deceased uncle from Las Vegas. He’s still learning, still fighting for respect. Which means he’s unpredictable and the problem I’m here to neutralize.
The tension in the air is thick. The smell of garlic and charred meat drifts through the room, but no one is here for the fucking food.
Vincent leans forward first, his gold-ringed fingers drumming against the table. In fact, his whole outfit is a throwback to the early 90’s. He must have a thing for nostalgia.
“Glad you could make it, Middleton,” he says, voice slick with sarcasm.
I just stare at him. Unblinking. Silent. Letting him feel the weight of his own words.
A lesser man would try to fill the space, try to justify his annoyance.
Vincent shifts slightly, his confidence cracking just a fraction.
Santos chuckles under his breath, sipping from a glass of red wine.
“You’re late,” Vincent mutters again, clearly unable to let it go.
I finally lean forward, slow and deliberate, folding my hands together on the table.
“You’re still breathing,” I say, my voice even. “I’d say we’re even.”
Christian exhales sharply through his nose—a quiet, restrained laugh. Vaughn smirks.
Santos leans back, amused, watching the young Morelli heir struggle to keep his composure.
Vincent’s face darkens, but he knows better than to push.
Because I may have come to the table late, but I didn’t come weak.
I came as the man who survived an assassination attempt.
I came as the man who most respect, and many still fear.
“Let’s cut the bullshit,” I say, my voice dropping an octave. “We’re here because after Fabre’s failed attempt to kill me, someone got bold and put a bullet in a car in front of my club last week. And while I don’t mind sending a very public message about how bad of a fucking idea that was, my fiancée seems to think my energy is better spent at home with our son.”
I let that sit for a second.
I don’t flinch when I say it. I don’t soften my voice. I don’t let them think for one second that fatherhood has made me weak.