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Ash

*finger flipping emoji* So???

Me

It’s passable

Ash

Passable my ass. It’s a masterpiece

The twisted pomegranate tree trunk looks papery and rough, the red fruits heavy on the long branches, leaves are falling, floating in the air, creating exactly what I described to him.

Me

When?

Ash

Next Wednesday. Usual time. Don’t be fucking late!

I move to the tracking app again and push on the cameras in Rague’s house. Sari is in the kitchen, sitting at the table with Ren while Sully is getting some snacks from the cabinets. Didn’t he go there to help the kid pack? I sniff. It looks to me like they are just chilling around.

The sunlight refracts on him as he talks, turning his aquamarine eyes into a serene ocean. They stand out for their pure innocence and sweetness.

His coal-black hair is once again tied in a sleek side-braid. Delicate features, a small upturned nose, peach cheekbones. He isn’t wearing his contact lenses today, but opted for his red square glasses.

He suddenly smiles, leaning his slender, graceful body toward Ren. I can’t look away from him. He’s beautiful, but when he smiles, he becomes almost ethereal, surrounded by an inner light, exuding warmth and wholesomeness. I can easily imagine people wanting to hurt that, to possess that. Because I am one of those people. The only rightful owner of all that is Sari.

He stands and goes to Sully to help him out. Is that pert, full ass wrapped in lace under those skintight jeans? He tosses a chip inside his mouth, and I remember those lips wrapped tightly around my dick as his throat sucked the cum out of it.I want him defenseless again. Utterly powerless, only able to take. And take more. The bruises from my fingers, the redness from my palms, the sting from my cock. I want him where he is supposed to be, under me again, over me, around me, any fucking way I can have him. Always returning to me.

Is his genius mind aware of what I want to do? Sometimes I wonder if he knows the vicious, dirty as fuck thoughts I have about him. He’s so fucking naive and gooey inside, anybody could easily take advantage of that. Not on my watch. What belongs to me remains mine unless I say differently.

My stomach starts growling, so I give Sari one last look and move to the kitchen, leaving Albert E. in the cage near the dining table in the corner.

The fridge is filled with food containers from three different places. I don’t need to know how to cook when I own more than a few restaurants. I’m about to grab the steak au poivre vert, which the chef at the bistro Le Chat Blanc near the harbor prepares beautifully, when my damn phone starts ringing.

All I want is a good meal and about four hours of uninterrupted sleep before going to the club. Anyone that gets in the way of that has a bloody death wish I’ll happily grant.

It’s Rami. I asked him to check out an employee at Fine Joe, the café I own on Taylor Street. There were some discrepancies in the books, on top of other things. When I get my answers from the short call I snap my switchblade in the jeans pocket, slide Veronica—my SIG—into the back of my jeans and grab a couple of pretzels with some cheese dip. I put on the denim sherpa tracker jacket and head toward the front door.

The Hummer is still at the car wash—Sari went all out in it—so I get in the Range Rover. I turn on the heated seat and wait a few seconds while the cabin warms before driving off.

Getting into the food business wasn’t a calculated choice. I used to model when I was a teenager. The money was good and the job didn’t take too much time from my studies. Meg and Linda are loaded, but I wanted something of mine that came from me. When I went to college, I started moving in the right circles, spending time with therightpeople, and stock trading with those modeling earnings. I quickly found out I had a knack for it—even my brothers got more than some extra capital thanks to me. When the opportunity to invest in a sushi restaurant knocked at my door, I took it. From there, I soon made a name for myself and started buying or funding restaurants. Now I own seven, a chain of cafés, and one of organic burger joints, two bars, and a trattoria.

I have managers who take care of the everyday tasks, and I meet them once a month to go over the paperwork. But finding people you can trust is not easy.

Thirty minutes later I park at the back of Fine Joe and swiftly make my way inside the café through the back door. The sweet smell of pastries makes my stomach rumble. Those pretzels weren’t enough to sate my hunger. I move toward the front where everybody is waiting—except Charles, the baker who’s working in the kitchen—as I ordered them to do when I called before.

The place is minimalistic yet sophisticated, with soft lighting that casts the space in an inviting, yet awe-inspiring ambiance. The walls are adorned with pictures of coffee fields and tea plants—I hired an interior designer to take care of all this crap. The three barista/waiters and the two assistant bakers are sitting around one of the dark wooden tables on the plush, high-backed chairs. The marble-topped bar stretches across from them, where they serve artisanal smoothies, organic teas, and uniquely fine coffee brews. Patrons can catch a glimpse of the culinary baker and his minions in action through the massive glass panel showing the open kitchen.

Every little detail contributes to an atmosphere of understated luxury.

Contrary to my brother Raph, I try to project a non-threatening image to look approachable to my underlings, unperturbed but assertive. Because you never know when people can be of use. That’s why I let my lips curl a little as I reach them.

They greet me with different levels of politeness. I don’t like inane chatter or talking for the mere sake of it. I only do that ifthere’s a purpose, an angle I can exploit, usually to feel people out. Today, I just want to hurry this up and go back home.

“Where’s Russ?” I ask about the manager.