Page 54

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

JULIAN

M y thumb hovers over the send button on my phone, hesitating for just a second before pressing down.

Where are the fucking pictures? It’s been two weeks.

I toss the phone onto my father’s desk—my desk now—watching it slide across the polished surface. Fourteen days. Fourteen fucking days since I handed Aurelia over to Lorenzo, and the bastard hasn’t sent a single picture. One single image to show me she’s suffering and being properly punished.

Also, to show me she’s still alive.

My chest constricts at the thought and I start pacing the length of the office. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the gold leaf on the bookshelves looking dull in the evening light.

What if Lorenzo’s killed her? What if I’ve made a mistake? What if? —

I stop myself. Lorenzo wouldn’t dare. He’s Consortium, and while he may be new, he knows the rules. You don’t destroy another man’s property, especially not when you’ve paid for temporary use. And Aurelia is mine. Has always been mine .

Even when she was Adrian’s.

God, I’m fucking pathetic. The truth sits like acid in my stomach—I just want to see her. Even broken, even suffering, even hating me with every fiber of her being… I just need to know she exists in the same world I do.

My phone buzzes, and I lunge for it, nearly knocking over the bottle of whiskey I’ve been working on all afternoon.

It’s not Lorenzo, only Valentine with some bullshit about shipment documents. I swipe the notification away, disgusted.

Maybe I should just go to Lorenzo’s estate. I could show up and demand my property back. Fuck the deal, fuck the promised time, fuck the appearance of weakness. I could take her back today.

I stop pacing to stare out the window. That’s one idea, but do what with her, exactly? Lock her in Adrian’s room again? Watch her spiral further into madness?

I walk to the window and touch the cool glass, staring out at the skyline. When did everything get so fucked up? When did I become this person—this pathetic, twisted shadow of myself?

The door to the office swings open without a knock. Only one person would dare enter without permission, and I actually don’t want to see her right now.

I glance over my shoulder as my mother glides in, dressed in midnight blue silk that makes her pale skin look ghostly. Her stab wound has mostly healed by now, but there’s still a stiffness to the way she moves, something that hints at lingering internal pain.

“Julian,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “The guests are arriving.”

I stare at her blankly. “What guests?”

“For the gathering tonight, of course. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Goddamnit. I remember now—another fucking social event she organized without asking me first.

I spit my words out. “Will you stop with these fucking parties? Christ, it’s like you can’t go three fucking days without throwing one.”

My mother doesn’t flinch at my tone. If anything, her posture becomes more rigid, more controlled. “It’s too late for today,” she says calmly. “The guests are already here, and they’re expecting to see their leader.”

The word feels like a collar around my neck, tightening with each passing day. Leader. What a fucking joke.

“Besides,” she continues, moving closer and resting a hand on my arm, “this gathering is to appease some of the members you’ve managed to irritate with your recent decisions.”

“My decisions?” I jerk away from her touch. “You mean the ones I’ve been forced to make without any real guidance? The ones where I’m trying to clean up the mess Father left?”

“After tonight,” she drones on, unfazed, “I can pause the gatherings for a few weeks to give you more time to adjust. But this is simply how the Consortium operates. Eventually, you’ll come to appreciate them. Need them, even, as your father did.”

I laugh. “I don’t think I’ll ever reach a point where I need to parade around like some circus animal for the Consortium’s amusement.”

“Julian—”

“Fine,” I cut her off, reaching for my drink and finishing it in one burning swallow. “I’ll be there. It’s a distraction, at least.”

Relief smooths the lines around her mouth. “Wonderful. Wear the navy suit. It brings out your eyes.”

As if I give a fuck what these people think of my appearance. I nod anyway, if only to make her leave faster. Once she’s gone, I pour another finger of whiskey.

Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I do care what they think. Maybe that’s why I sold Aurelia—to prove to the Consortium that I’m as ruthless, as capable, as my father was. To silence the whispers that I’m too weak and volatile to lead.

Maybe. But honestly, I don’t know what my own motivations are anymore. Life, my head, is too fucked up from everything that’s happened.

But… Aurelia earned her punishment. She killed Adrian. She killed Lucas. She defied me again and again and again, making a mockery of my authority. So I guess my motivations are layers. I sold her partly to prove something.

Mostly, I sold her because she deserved it.

I swallow another mouthful of whiskey and leave the office to change clothes.

The party is in full swing by the time I make my appearance.

Lots of chatter, clinking glasses, and laughter.

It’s familiar. These are the sounds of my childhood—the backdrop to a thousand nights spent hiding in my room, counting the hours until the monsters who called themselves business associates would leave.

Now I’m expected to mingle with them. To lead them. And apparently, I’m doing the world’s shittiest job at it.

I grab a glass of whiskey from a passing server. The alcohol isn’t dulling the edges of my thoughts the way I’d hoped. If anything, it’s making everything sharper, more vivid, more unbearable. I’ve been drinking so much lately, I must be getting used to it.

Now I understand why my father preferred harder drugs at times.

Sergio Castellano approaches me, launching into some tedious complaint about shipping routes. I nod occasionally, but my mind is elsewhere.

I’ve been making decisions for weeks now, fumbling through ‘supply chains’ and ‘distribution networks’ and human trafficking schemes.

And I’m fucking it up. Shipments are getting seized, profits are dwindling, alliances are fraying.

The Consortium is losing faith in my leadership, and I can’t even blame them.

Adrian would’ve known what to do. Adrian always knew what to do.

The familiar ache of grief tightens around my throat. I miss my brother. Not just for his strategic mind, not just for his ability to navigate the annoying details of our family business, but I miss him . For the steady presence he provided. He kept me more sane than I realized.

I miss the way he would sigh when I’d done something particularly reckless, the slight shake of his head that said more disappointment than words ever could. I miss knowing that no matter how badly I fucked up, there was someone who would help me clean up the mess.

Now there’s just me, treading water in the deep end, with the weight of a criminal empire dragging me down.

“Don’t you agree?” Castellano’s voice finally penetrates my thoughts.

I blink, focusing on his face. “Sure,” I say, having no fucking clue what I’m agreeing to.

He smiles. “Excellent. I’ll send Valentine the details tomorrow.”

He moves away, and I drain my glass, the alcohol doing nothing to ease the churning in my gut. This is unbearable. I’m drowning here, surrounded by people who would slit my throat if it meant gaining even a sliver of my power.

My gaze drifts across the room, seeking anything to distract me from the suffocating weight of my thoughts. In the far corner, I spot two men I can’t currently name. They’re arguing and things look heated. Their body language is tense, aggressive, with lots of gesturing.

Perfect.

I stalk toward them, craving the fight in their eyes since it’s been too long since I visited The Den. Their argument grows louder as I approach, words like “territory” and “respect” floating above the noise of the party.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, inserting myself into their space.

The one with a mustache opens his mouth to answer, but I silence him with a raised hand. “Actually, it doesn’t matter,” I say. “Settle your disagreement with a fight.”

They stare at me like I’m speaking Martian before letting out laughs.

“That wasn’t a question,” I tell them, the anticipation of seeing bloody fists already coiling in my stomach.

Their faces pale, and they glance around for help. The crowd around us has gone quiet, unsure whether to be shocked or entertained.

“Go on,” I say. My voice has the sharp edge of boredom, but inside my blood is humming, demanding action.

They’re still hesitating, frozen in place by disbelief and fear.

“Now,” I command. “Or I’ll shoot you both.” I pull my suit jacket back just enough to give them a glimpse of the gun at my side.

Finally, Mustache draws his hands into fists and forces himself into an awkward stance. The other man swallows hard and does the same. They look ridiculous—two overgrown schoolboys about to slap each other on a playground. I wonder if either has ever fought before.

There’s a ripple of movement behind me as people clear space in the room. Furniture scrapes against the polished floor as it’s pushed aside. The circle tightens around them.

And then they start.

It’s pathetic at first—half-hearted shoves and clumsy jabs—but it slowly gains momentum. They stumble over their own feet more than anything else, but there’s an element of desperation in their movements that makes it almost compelling.

Almost.

But I crave more.

Since it seems they’re both weary of actually making contact, I step in the middle and punch Mustache first. He gasps and staggers back while I spin and punch the other fucker, hard.

“There. Now stop being fucking cowards and fight!”

The crowd gives a collective gasp as both wobble back into the center of the circle. Blood trickles from Mustache’s nose. He wipes it with the back of his hand, eyes finally flaring to life with rage, and throws himself at the other man.

This time, they really go at it—fists flying and bodies slamming against each other—until Mustache gets the upper hand and tackles the other guy to the floor.

They’re ready to stop but I step closer and say, “Only one of you gets to leave.”

The room stills, everyone holding their breath as they wait to see what happens next.

“Julian.” My mother’s voice rises above the tension. “You can’t make these men fight to the death.”

“Says who?”

Death is what I need right now .

Violence.

I pull out my gun and point it at the men. “Either one of you dies, or both of you do. Now, fight.”

The men look at each other in panic but they know there’s no escape. They start again with more on the line, desperation fueling their blows. The one on the floor scrambles for something sharp—a broken shard from a champagne flute—and drives it into Mustache’s neck.

A strangled cry escapes before he collapses.

Silence hangs thick in the air as everyone watches Mustache bleed out. The surviving man stares at me in horror, clearly terrified of what just happened and of me, before he doubles over and vomits on some unsuspecting woman’s high heels.

I laugh, loud enough for everyone to hear, then turn to my guards. “Clean up this mess.”

After the party, I sit alone in the dark with another drink. The only light comes from Seattle’s skyline bleeding through the windows. My suit jacket lies crumpled on the couch; my tie drapes over an empty chair.

That fight was entertaining but didn’t fill the ache inside me or ease my frustration enough. Didn’t even come close.

I think only Aurelia can stop this ache.

The glass is halfway to my lips when I hear footsteps behind me. Mother’s movements are cautious, but I ignore her until she speaks.

“That was some party,” she says .

I only grunt a response.

“I didn’t realize you were so much like your father.”

Her words hit like a fist to the gut, and something snaps inside me. I fly out of my seat and grab her arm roughly, making her cower back.

“Don’t ever fucking say that again!”

She gasps, shrinking away as much as she can. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her voice holds that desperation it used to hold every time she spoke to Lucian.

I see how scared she is of me, really scared.

Am I really like him?

Something breaks deep down in my core. My grip loosens as everything spills out in a rush of raw emotion. I pull her into an embrace, crying against her shoulder and mumbling apologies while she stiffens under my touch.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper.

Slowly, she softens enough to pat my back, though there’s wariness in every motion.

We stand like that for too long or not long enough until I feel drained of everything inside me except whiskey and regret.