Page 45

RIOT

I looked good. I knew it, and so did everybody else.

Tailored navy suit, crisp collar, no tie.

Gold pin gleaming against my lapel, initials of my name and my legacy carved into metal.

I shook hands like I’d been born for this, because I had.

These people weren’t just here for the wine—they were here for me.

For the King name. For the myth and the money behind it.

And I didn’t disappoint.

The courtyard buzzed with power. There were restaurateurs from SoHo, liquor buyers from all over the tri-state and press crews trying to play it cool while they filmed.

Every camera found me eventually. I made sure of it.

The King’s Vine logo sat behind me like a crown, and I rocked it like a fuckin’ throne.

Creed stood off to the left with his arms crossed in Tom Ford. I could sense the pride bouncing off of him towards me. King’s Vine was my pet project that I was seeing from beginning to end.

Sloane and Allure worked the floor like seasoned pros—smiling, sipping, commanding attention. A journalist from Forbes asked Allure about her dress, and she tilted her head with that coy smile I knew too well, offering a sharp, clever answer that had them eating out of her palm.

I couldn’t help watching Allure from across the room, the way she tossed her hair, the curve of her mouth when she caught me staring. She winked, slow and smug, and I smirked right back, already planning how I’d peel that dress off her later.

Meanwhile, Abra held it down behind the scenes, running logistics with one hand and handling a caterer meltdown with the other like a damn general.

I made my rounds, shaking hands, answering questions, posing for pictures. “Yes, all grapes are estate-grown and everything is organic. That’s a personal mission of mine. To have the highest quality wine available.” I dropped lines like that with a smirk, watching them eat it up.

Eventually, I broke from the crowd and found Rollo posted up near one of the outdoor bars, sipping one of the moscatos.

“This is the only one I like,” I he laughed.

“Cuz it’s sweet. The dry shit is an acquired taste,” I said.

“You can say that again. That shit… I can’t get with it but you’re doing a good job bro. I’d say your Pops would be proud but fuck that nigga. I know your mom is proud for sure,” he said as he swallowed the last bit.

“If she were in her right mind, she could let me know but fuck all that. I got a lil business to discuss with you. Update me on that whole Israeli situation,” I said, keeping my voice low but steady.

Rollo didn’t waste time. “Irina’s back at my spot. She’s calm. Said she ain’t stepping foot back in that house again.”

“She shouldn’t. She did good?”

He nodded. “Real good. Gave us her daddy’s new spot. Some safehouse in Queens. Industrial district. Off the grid but not invisible. We can move in whenever.”

I tilted my head, considering it. “We gotta handle that soon.”

Rollo sat his glass down. “Hell yeah. Get that shit done and over with. ”

“We’ll get in and out. Handle that shit. And then I’m done with killing. I just wanna grow my grapes and be with my woman.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “You really out here turning into Creed.”

“Nah,” I said, flashing a quick grin. “Just growing up..”

Rollo picked up his glass and clinked it against mine. “Fair enough.”

I watched the crowd a moment longer—Senator Rodriguez shaking hands with Creed, a journalist from Eater filming a sommelier walk-through, an influencer perched on a wine barrel pretending not to pose.

Everything was running smooth.

And that’s when I felt it.

That quiet pull in my gut. Like the air shifted just a little. Not fear. Not nerves. Just… instinct. The kind that kept a man like me alive.

I didn’t say anything. Just made a mental note: be ready.

Because when shit feels too perfect, that’s usually when something breaks.

Rollo’s head jerked toward the gate like something invisible tugged it there.

“Yo,” he said, squinting. “You see that?”

I followed his line of sight. There was a man hanging just outside the iron gates. Hoodie up. Pacing like he was waiting for someone, or trying not to be noticed. But the fidgeting gave him away. That, and the way he kept looking over his shoulder like he had a ghost chasing him.

Rollo straightened, hand drifting toward his waistband. “That’s not one of ours.”

I clocked the nigga’s outfit. Our security was dressed in all black suits with black button ups. Despite the formality, they all had guns in their waistbands. And due to the nature of the event, they were all legal and registered.

But this nigga was no dressed right for this event. He wasn’t a guest. Definitely not our security. Where the fuck was Havoc? He was supposed to be keeping an eye for this shit.

“Yo!” Rollo shouted. “We got a?—”

Gunfire cracked the air.

The guy didn’t wait for conversation. He pulled out a Glock and started spraying.

Rollo dropped behind a wine barrel, returning fire without hesitation. Screams ripped through the courtyard. Glass shattered. Somebody in a power suit hit the deck, wine all over their chest like blood.

Creed was already moving—calm, fast, like he’d done this shit before. Because he had. Me too.

I ducked behind a table and drew my piece from the holster stitched into my blazer. “Stay down!” I barked to the crowd, pointing toward the ground. “Security lockdown, now!”

Sloane yanked a reporter behind a column. Allure was already pulling Abra out of the way, her heels scraping on stone as they ducked inside the nearest building.

Another shot cracked from the far end of the vineyard.

“Fuck,” I hissed. “They’re flanking.”

“North side!” Creed shouted, firing off a shot that dropped one of the motherfuckers trying to vault the low fence near the vines. Another man screamed and scrambled backward, dragging his leg behind him.

I charged toward him, aiming, heart pounding but my hand steady. Creed covered me from the west while Rollo kept the east side in check. Two of our guards clipped another assailant trying to run. It wasn’t a full-blown war—but it was a hit.

A message.

Gunfire rang out and then it ended. I looked around and none of my men nor guests were hit. I heard cars speeding away from the parking lot. The assailants were bailing but there were a few of their bodies left on my fuckin’ property.

I was so pissed that this shit happened. This was the most important day of my life and it was marked in blood. It was so embarrassing to have all of these guests here and for them to be put in harms ways.

Who the hell set us up? It couldn’t have been Boaz?

He wouldn’t have hired some black dudes to take me out.

He’d go in house and find some Israelis.

Or perhaps he was scared that I would recognize him so he switched shit up and hired some dumb street kids.

Those niggas couldn’t aim for shit. They ain’t kill a single person. But got a few themselves killed.

I saw one of them crawling—barely breathing. Blood soaking his jeans. His gun was still in his hand and he was tremoring as if he were trying to lift his hand to shoot me. He rolled over just enough to catch a glimpse of the courtyard… and that’s when I saw it.

His eyes landed on Allure as she and others walked out to survey the damage.

He froze. Then whispered something.

Her name.

“Allure…”

I didn’t hesitate. I put one right between his eyes. It was self defense since he still had that gun in his hand.

He dropped.

I turned toward her. “You know him?”

She stood near the glass door, stunned but steady. “He looks…familiar. I don’t know from where. I can’t place it.”

My jaw clenched.

I didn’t like that. Didn’t like that her past was bleeding into my present. What the fuck was that about? Maybe it was someone who rolled with Boaz and that’s how she knew him.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Fast.

Good.

Creed radioed our inside guy, locking down the grounds. Rollo holstered his piece, already giving statements to a trembling assistant who caught it all on a livestream. Guests were ushered inside. Someone screamed that the senator had fainted.

Whatever.

I looked down at the body again.

Tat on the neck. Old scar across the jaw. Dirt under the fingernails.

This wasn’t random. This was personal.

And that meant we were just getting started. But where in the fuck was Havoc?