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CHAPTER NINE

JULIAN

S he’s doing it again. Staring out the window like some caged bird before walking directly under the camera and raising her middle finger.

It’s the millionth fucking time she’s done that in three days.

I wonder how her finger’s not sore by now, considering how many times she flicks it at me, knowing I’ve been watching.

Shortly after I trapped her in that room, I had guards install cameras so I can keep an eye on everything that bitch does.

Look, another middle finger.

If I were in a better mood, I might laugh. Something about her defiance, even locked away in Adrian’s room, sends a perverse thrill through me. She’s suffocating in there, I know it, but still fighting. Still clawing at the walls of her prison cell. I’d expect nothing less from the Golden One.

But I’m not in the mood to laugh. Not while sitting in Lucian’s office, surrounded by his lingering presence like a disease in the air. I half expect his ghost to crawl out from behind the massive bookshelf and start beating me.

The room is oppressive, designed to make anyone who enters feel small.

Jagged edges everywhere—on the torchiere lamps, on the corners of the gold leaf mahogany bookshelves, on the waxy desk.

The furniture is dark and massive, like it’s meant to trap all light.

The Persian rug beneath my feet—the same one he would stand on while Adrian and I took his verbal beatings—feels like quicksand now.

And everything, every single fucking thing in this room, carries the scent of his cigars.

This office holds only bad memories for me, yet now I’m expected to “work” in it.

I catch myself drumming my fingers against the armrest of Lucian’s leather chair—his throne—where he made deals and ruined lives. My father’s chair. My chair now.

The thought makes my skin crawl; I need to buy a new fucking chair.

The phone on the desk lets out another shrill beep, the light flashing to signal yet another voicemail.

The little digital display shows sixty-seven messages waiting for me.

Sixty-seven people who need the new leader of the Inferno Consortium to make decisions, give orders, fix problems. Consortium members, contacts, drug mules, suppliers—all of them want a piece of me.

All of them are waiting for me to prove whether I’m my father’s son or not.

My gaze drifts to the stacks of paperwork covering the desk. Files upon files of transactions, shipments, personnel changes, profit margins—whatever the fuck that is. Paper. Actual fucking paper. Like we’re living in the 1950s.

“We live in a digital era,” I said to Valentine yesterday, gesturing at the mess. “Why the fuck are there so many printed papers to look through?”

The smug bastard had smirked at me like I was a child who’d asked why the sky was blue. “With all the Consortium’s illegal activities, you want digital files for the FBI to easily find?”

It took my mother’s reassurance and calming voice to stop me from beating that smug look off Valentine’s face right there. The old man has been making digs at me ever since I took leadership. Well, and imprisoned his daughter.

I turn my attention back to the surveillance feed where Aurelia has moved to the bed.

She’s sitting cross-legged now, hunched over the diary I left for her.

Her features are tight with anger as she scribbles furiously across the page, pressing so hard I worry she’ll tear right through it or snap the pen.

Then, as if reading my thoughts, she rips a page clean out, crumpling it into a ball before hurling it at the camera.

Something twists in my gut as I watch her. Is she finally writing a confession? Admitting what she did to Adrian? To Martinelli? If I can get that… then I don’t know what happens next. But I know I need that fucking confession. For my own sanity, at least.

She looks up at the camera suddenly, her green eyes red but defiant, and my chest constricts.

Even through the grainy surveillance feed, her anguish is clear.

Guilt spears through me—not for imprisoning a murderer, but for trapping the woman I love like this.

Like a butterfly pinned to velvet, beautiful even while dying.

The same way Lucian trapped my mother.

I pound my fist against the desk, knocking some papers to the floor. Christ, what’s wrong with me?

I had to set an example, didn’t I? Had to deal with the person everyone thinks killed Adrian and Martinelli. Had to show the Consortium I’m a leader worth following. But I didn’t expect it to feel like this—hollow, like I’ve carved out something essential inside myself and replaced it with lead.

I shouldn’t feel this conflicted about justice. About vengeance. But when Aurelia pleads her innocence, her voice breaks in a way that sounds so fucking real. The problem is, she’s always been too good at selling her lies. Too convincing. Too everything.

How do I really know what to believe?

My thoughts drift to three nights ago, when I went to her room—to Adrian’s room—intending only to question her again or shake the damn truth from her.

But the moment I saw that red hair, those eyes, the curve of her beautiful body, my rage gave way to a different kind of heat.

When she launched herself at me, fists pounding against my chest, screaming about how much she hated me… something inside me just snapped.

I wasn’t planning to fuck her. Wasn’t planning to claim her while she gasped beneath me, my name wanting to cross those pink lips. But I did. And it felt better than I want to admit, better than it had any right to.

But with each thrust, with each moan I pulled from her throat, I felt Adrian’s ghost watching us from the corners of the room. His presence in every shadow, his scent still clinging to the sheets where I took the woman he’d called his for a decade.

Betraying my brother’s memory by wanting—no, needing—the woman who put a bullet in him. What kind of bastard does that make me?

My throat tightens, choking on the stale air of Lucian’s office. Between the suffocating walls closing in around me, the weight of my brother’s death, and Aurelia’s piercing eyes staring through the camera into whatever’s left of my soul—I can’t fucking breathe in here.

I need relief. Need to escape before I lose what little sanity I have left.

I shove away from the desk, the chair’s legs screeching against the hardwood floor as I stand. There’s only one place I’ve ever truly felt like myself, so that’s where I’m going.

The Den smells of old sweat and blood—familiar and real, unlike the suffocating cologne-and-cigar stench of Lucian’s office.

There’s no fight scheduled tonight, but the ring is still alive.

Fighters spar with each other while a scattered audience of maybe fifteen regulars watch, chugging beers and calling out suggestions.

This place has always been mine. The only fucking thing that’s ever been mine… and hasn’t betrayed me.

I scan the room, already stripped down to my sweatpants, chest bare and skin prickling in the humid air.

My eyes find what I need—a giant standing near the back, watching the sparring with disinterest. I’ve seen him fight a few times.

Don’t know his name, don’t care to. What matters is the way he tears into opponents, the lack of hesitation when he breaks bones.

His face is a roadmap of violence—a jagged scar splits his left eyebrow and continues down his cheek, another cuts across his bottom lip. His knuckles are permanently swollen, tattoos of skulls disappearing into a dark beard. He has to be six foot five, all muscle and meanness.

Perfect.

I approach him, shoulders squared. “I need a real fight,” I say, and recognition of who I am crosses his face as I continue. “No sparring. No protective equipment. No holding punches.” His eyes glint with interest as I add, “I know you only fight for cash, so I’ll give you ten grand. You in?”

He glances at his buddies, who nod eagerly, one of them whispering something about easy money. The big man turns back to me with a slow smile that reminds me of a shark.

“Sure, boss.” His voice is like gravel. “Your funeral.”

Five minutes later, I’m in the ring. My hands are wrapped, but that’s my only concession to safety. My opponent lumbers in after me, rolling his massive shoulders.

Someone rings the bell and we begin to circle each other. Normally, I’d be looking for an opening, analyzing his stance, figuring out his weaknesses. I’m good at that— reading fighters, finding the soft spots where a well-placed hit will bring them down.

But tonight, I’m not looking to win. I need something else entirely.

I charge him recklessly, deliberately leaving myself open. The right hook catches me square in the jaw, pain exploding through my skull like a gunshot. My vision blurs, but I stay on my feet, twisting to deliver a kick to his ribs.

It’s like kicking a brick wall. He barely moves, just grunts and laughs. “That all you got, boss?”

His fist drives into my stomach next, and the air evacuates my lungs in a violent rush. I stagger back, gasping, copper flooding my mouth. Fuck, that feels good. Real. So much better than the internal pain that’s been eating me alive.

We trade a few more blows—I land one to his jaw that makes him spit, but he responds with a combination that has me reeling. His knee connects with my ribs, and I swear I hear something crack. The sound makes me smile through bloody teeth.

Then I’m on the ground, his weight crushing me as he pins my arms with his knees, then his fists start coming down like hammers, one after another. There’s no referee, but I know I could tap out. He’d stop. He’s a professional, after all, just doing the job I paid him for.