Page 23 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

A t the Vipers’ Den

The Den hums with tension.

It always does.

Whether it’s contracts or blood money, every breath in this building tastes like control and compromise.

I sit at the long waterfall conference table—nine feet of tension, carved from a tree older than sin. Amboyna Burl, rare and temperamental, twisted into something unnatural by time and pressure.

The kind of wood that doesn’t give up its beauty easily.

You have to fight it. Bleed for it.

And that’s what makes it perfect for this place.

The grain is wild—dark veins that look like lightning frozen mid-strike, running beneath a surface polished to a lethal shine.

Down the center runs a thick ribbon of deep epoxy, black and blue stardust suspended in resin like a galaxy cut open and left to bleed.

A river of midnight nightmares that flows straight through the heart of the table.

It demands your attention.

Commands silence.

It’s not just a table.

It’s a throne room altar for men like us—built to bear the weight of deals, secrets, and blood oaths.

Every Viper has a desk like this.

It’s part of the legacy.

Custom-made by a local artisan Uncle Luc found years ago, back when this place was still more ambition than empire. The guy was a recluse—one of those savant types.

Touched by something divine or deranged, maybe both. He saw the wood like it was alive.

Said it spoke in knots and fractures. Shaped violence into furniture. Pain into prestige.

And damn if that isn’t what we are too.

Strength and beauty colliding. Rage under polish. Violence with a coat of class.

But right now?

I can’t fucking focus.

There’s a file open in front of me—legal documents I helped draft myself.

Contracts. Cutouts. Shell games.

The kind of thing that usually makes my brain hum, because I like the intricacy of it.

The quiet warfare of ink and signatures. The chessboard hidden behind every clause.

But my attention is shot.

Shredded by the ghost of a woman who I left in my bed, wearing silk and a satisfied grin.

Leanna Volkov.

Princess.

Temptress.

My fucking ruin.

My hand clenches the pen I’ve been using to pretend I’m present, jaw tight, blood hotter than it should be.

All I can think about is her mouth.

Her voice.

Her goddamn curves.

That little sigh she made when I slid inside her for the first time.

And the fact that she slays me.

I rake a hand through my hair and try— try —to keep my composure, but the weight of the table in front of me only reminds me of the one person not in her fucking seat.

The only thing more twisted than this burl wood?

My goddamn heart when it comes to her.

Focus, Fury.

One wrong move on this deal and we expose more than a holding company— we risk pulling back the curtain on a few strategic shells the Feds would love to poke at.

Good thing I built the whole structure myself.

With my own two hands and a law degree sharpened into a scalpel.

The shit they didn’t teach me in school?

My father and uncles bled to pass that down.

Power, but clean. Violence, but hidden. Law, but leveraged.

I glance up as my father enters, silent as the shadow he is. Nico Fury might be the Viper King to the world, but to me, he’s the man who taught me how to strike without leaving a mark.

He sinks into the chair at the head of the table, drapes an arm along the back, and watches me like the serpent he is.

“You got this, Junior?”

I nod once, confident. “I got it, Dad.”

He doesn’t smile, but I know that look.

It’s trust. Real trust. And it fucking humbles me.

Or it should.

But Leanna Volkov has me fucked six ways to Sunday.

He walks out of the room, leaving me alone.

And I can’t help it.

I mean, I try not to check my phone. Try to stay in the zone.

This contract needs to go through today.

Clean signatures.

No blood.

But still, I check.

And the second I do, everything shifts.

She’s gone.

Gone.

She left.

No text. No message. No goodbye.

Without a word.

Like I’m just some passing obsession and not the man who remade his world for her.

Just disappeared like she hadn’t come in my mouth the night before, hadn’t moaned like a broken prayer as I claimed every inch of her.

My fingers curl around the phone until I hear the subtle crack of strain.

What the fuck ?

I rise so fast my chair nearly topples.

The guard standing outside the door turns to face me. He raises an eyebrow, but I just give him a look that says shut the fuck up .

He’s trained well. Knows better than to comment.

Then, I order him to close the door. And he does it without question.

Quickly I locate her phone, and a deep growl rises in my chest.

Leanna’s in Manhattan.

Her apartment.

Fuck.

I want to go there right now.

In my head, I’m already halfway to her.

My pulse is thundering. Fury strikes me like a lightning bolt to the spine. I want to howl.

Break things.

Burn the city down.

I gave her everything.

My secrets. My obsession.

But not my fucking name .

Not yet.

And I have every intention of doing that.

But now, it’s gotta be rushed.

Why? Because she walked.

She fucking walked.

I didn’t plan for this. I should have. But I didn’t.

So, I’m dialing her number before I can talk myself out of it.

She wants distance? Fine.

This is all she gets, though.

I’ll give her inches before I close the gap.

Because this isn’t over.

Not even fucking close.

She’s mine—and she’s about to remember why.