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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

DANTE

T he security feeds cast an otherworldly glow across my office.

Five camera angles capture everything happening in the basement room—a space Lorenzo designed for “entertainment purposes” that now serves our more strategic aims. The central monitor displays the poker table, where Aurelia sits among four Consortium associates, each man leaning forward with barely disguised interest.

I adjust the volume, catching the low rumble of masculine laughter as someone makes a crude joke. Aurelia’s responding smile is perfect—just enough warmth to encourage without seeming eager.

“Gentlemen,” she says. “Shall we make this more… interesting?”

The cards in her hands fan out as she examines them. I’ve memorized her tells by now—the slight furrow between her brows indicates a weak hand. She’s losing deliberately, precisely as we planned.

The men exchange glances that communicate varying level of lust. Lorenzo selected them carefully: each has connections to DeSean Smith’s money laundering operation, each harbors information we require, and each believes they’ve been granted exclusive access to the infamous Golden One through Lorenzo’s generosity.

None suspect they’re being manipulated.

Ramos—DeSean’s primary accountant—leans forward. “Smith would kill me if he knew I was here.”

“Oh?” Aurelia’s eyebrow arches. “Is he that possessive of his employees?”

“Paranoid is more like it.” Ramos takes a long drink of Patrón, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “Especially since the feds started sniffing around his Vegas hotel. The man hasn’t slept in his own bed for weeks. Keeps moving between safe houses.”

Valuable information. DeSean’s financial mistakes have finally caught federal attention. This simplifies our approach.

Aurelia’s fingers brush Ramos’s wrist as she places her cards down. “That must make your job difficult, always chasing him around.”

“Tell me about it. Next Tuesday I’m stuck flying to his Lake Washington property just so he can sign some documents before disappearing again.”

Lake Washington. Tuesday. Each detail slots neatly into place in my mental framework. DeSean Smith keeps a secured compound on the eastern shore of the lake—fourteen acres, private dock, minimal staff. The perfect location for an elimination that won’t be discovered immediately .

“Your turn, sweetheart,” another man—one of DeSean’s security consultants—interrupts, his gaze lingering on Aurelia’s cleavage.

My jaw tightens reflexively. The way these men look at her—as if she’s an object for consumption rather than the extraordinary, resilient woman she is—stirs something primitive in me.

It’s… unusual.

I’ve always prided myself on emotional discipline. Even during my years with Aurelia, when we were “together” yet separate, I maintained the necessary distance. The calculated detachment required for our mutual survival.

But death and resurrection have altered something. The barriers I erected so meticulously are deteriorating at an alarming rate, particularly where she’s concerned.

“I believe I’ve lost again.” Aurelia’s practiced sigh draws me back to the monitors. “Too bad.”

The men’s eager expressions as she reaches for the buttons of her silk blouse send a surge of possessive rage through my system. I intellectually understand this is strategic—her participation in this game provides critical intelligence.

Yet the sight of Ramos’s hand casually brushing her shoulder as she removes her blouse provokes an irrational response I struggle to suppress.

I press my fingertips together, focusing on the pressure points. Three deep breaths. Clarity returns.

Aurelia sets her blouse aside, sitting now in just a black lace bra and her jeans. The hungry stares from the men intensify. Ramos adjusts his position, leaning closer .

“Perhaps next week after my Lake Washington visit, I could take you to dinner,” he says. “Smith has this incredible wine collection. He’d never notice if one went missing.”

Aurelia’s smile remains fixed as her fingers brush the emerald necklace at her throat—my gift, my claim. “I’m not sure Lorenzo would approve.”

“Lorenzo doesn’t need to know everything.” His hand is now resting on the back of Aurelia’s chair, fingers dangerously close to her bare skin.

Enough.

I lean forward, pressing the intercom button. “Gentlemen,” I announce, my voice echoing through the basement room. “I’m afraid I must cut this evening short. Unforeseen circumstances require immediate attention.”

Heads swivel and bodies tense. Security concerns are hardwired into Consortium associates. None recognize my voice, of course. Adrian Harrow remains dead to the world.

“What the fuck?” Ramos stands, hand moving instinctively toward his concealed weapon.

“Your participation is appreciated,” I say. “You’ll find your initial investments returned threefold as compensation for the inconvenience.” My tone leaves no room for negotiation. “Please exit through the north corridor. Lorenzo’s men will escort you.”

I watch through the monitors as confusion gives way to reluctant compliance. Two of Lorenzo’s security personnel appear at the door. It’s a timely reminder for our guests that we control this environment.

Aurelia remains seated, arms crossed over her black bra, her expression a complex mixture of irritation and relief. As the last man vacates the room, she glares directly into the nearest camera.

“What the hell was that?”

“Stay there,” I command, already rising from my desk.

Four minutes and forty-seven seconds later, I push open the basement door. Aurelia hasn’t moved. The defiance in her posture reminds me of a cornered wildcat—beautiful, dangerous, and utterly captivating.

“You mind explaining why you just sabotaged that?” She throws the question at me like a knife.

I close the door, taking measured steps toward the poker table. “We obtained the necessary intelligence. Continuing served no strategic purpose.”

“We were just getting to the good part!” Her frustration vibrates between us. “Ramos was about to tell me exactly how to access the Lake Washington property. Like the entry codes and?—”

“Unnecessary details.” I settle into the chair across from her. “We have a location and a time. The rest can be determined through other means.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s not why you stopped it, is it?”

Perceptive, as always. I adjust the cuffs of my shirt, permitting myself three seconds to formulate a response that will give her enough truth to let it go.

“You were overplaying your hand,” I say finally, reaching for the deck of cards. “You need guidance.”

“My technique was working perfectly.” She leans forward, and I maintain eye contact rather than allowing my gaze to drift lower. “Those men were putty in my hands.”

“Those men were seconds away from making physical advances.” I shuffle the cards. “Additionally, your poker skills are horrendous.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, irritation temporarily replacing her suspicion. Excellent.

“I was losing on purpose,” she says.

“Were you?” I arrange the cards, dealing two hands. “Perhaps we should test that. A private game, just the two of us. Unless you’re afraid of a challenge?”

There it is—the flash of competitive determination that’s always defined her. “Fine,” she says, snatching up her cards. “What are the stakes?”

“The same as before. The loser removes an article of clothing.”

“Hardly seems fair, considering my current state.”

“Your first lesson in strategy—wear more clothing if you’re going to play strip poker.”

She rolls her eyes.

The first hand proceeds exactly as expected. Aurelia attempts a bluff with nothing stronger than a pair of threes, her giveaway tic—that slight furrow of concentration—appearing precisely 4.3 seconds after she examines her cards.

“Call,” I say, laying down my straight.

“Dammit.” She glares at my cards as if they’ve personally betrayed her. Standing, she shimmies out of her jeans with a slowness that suggests she’s attempting to unsettle me.

It’s working more effectively than I care to admit .

She sits again, now only in a black bra and panties. “Happy?” she challenges.

I deal the next hand without responding, focusing on maintaining my composure. This was perhaps not the most strategic approach. The sight of her nearly naked across the table is… distracting.

To my surprise, she wins the second hand—a flush that beats my three of a kind.

“Your jacket,” she demands, eyes mischievous.

I remove it, folding it over the back of my chair.

“That’s so not fair,” she protests. “You should have to remove your shirt too.”

“That would be two articles of clothing. The rules specified one per loss.”

“The rules are stupid.”

“The rules are the rules.”

“Then I’m changing them,” she says with that familiar stubborn set to her jaw. “From now on, the loser doesn’t strip; they have to do whatever the winner commands.”

I pause, cards suspended between my hands. “That seems unnecessarily complicated.”

“Scared?”

“Very well.” I finish dealing the next hand. “Though I should warn you—I rarely lose. Last hand was a fluke.”

The game continues, this new dynamic heightening the tension between us. Aurelia’s focus is unwavering. Yet my own skills, honed by years of negotiation and manipulation, prevail. She loses.

“Fine,” she mutters, tossing her cards on the table. “What do you want? ”

I consider her for a moment, the perfect blend of defiance and vulnerability. “Take off my belt.”

Her breath catches audibly, a delightful sound that resonates through the room. Color rises to her cheeks in a perfect pink flush.

“You’re refusing?” I ask as she hesitates.

“No. Jerk.”

I watch as she rises from her chair and then crosses the short space between us. Her movements are cautious. When she’s close enough, I turn my chair to give her access.

Her eyes flash with irritation and something else as she waits. “Aren’t you going to stand up?”

I chuckle softly. “That wasn’t part of the dare.”