Page 6 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

CROWN OF THORNS

ADRIAN

D awn found me in my private medical room at Ravenswood, inspecting the bullet graze in the mirror.

Pale sunlight filtered through bulletproof windows, casting my scarred torso in harsh relief against the clinical white of the surroundings.

The wound wasn't serious, but it had torn open delicate scar tissue along my shoulder that would require specialist attention.

I prodded the ragged edges gently, feeling the familiar pull of damaged flesh that had never properly healed.

The medical suite occupied the east wing of my estate, a sanctuary few were permitted to enter.

Gleaming surgical steel contrasted with antique wooden cabinetry, the blend of modern and traditional that characterised my ancestral home.

I kept this room stocked better than most private clinics—a necessity when gunshot wounds couldn't be explained away at public hospitals without unwanted scrutiny.

Blood had seeped through the temporary dressing I'd applied after returning home.

I peeled it away carefully, noting the inflamed tissue surrounding the wound.

The bullet had carved a shallow valley through layers of pre-existing scar tissue, creating a topography of old and new pain across my shoulder.

Pain was an old companion, one I'd learned to acknowledge without permitting it to control me.

“Dr. Montgomery can see you this afternoon,” Sophia announced, entering without knocking—the only person permitted such liberties in my private domain.

My grandmother moved with the imperial grace that eighty years had failed to diminish, her silver hair swept into an immaculate chignon, her tailored suit a subtle demonstration of wealth that required no ostentatious display.

Her eyes narrowed at my injury. “Though he'll lecture you about managing stress to prevent scar tissue inflammation. Again.”

I met her gaze in the mirror, noting the concern she masked with criticism.

Sophia Calloway had raised me after the fire that claimed my parents, shaping me into the weapon I'd become with unflinching determination.

She was the only living person who'd witnessed my most vulnerable moments, a knowledge that created a complicated alchemy of love, resentment, and respect between us.

“Montgomery's retiring,” I replied, buttoning my shirt over the temporary bandages, movement causing fresh blood to bloom against pristine white cotton. “Find me someone equally skilled who understands discretion. I don't have time for breaking in someone new.”

“The world doesn't bend to your schedule, Adrian,” she countered, moving closer to examine my handiwork with disapproval. “Proper medical care requires trust. Trust requires time to develop.”

Her fingers hovered near my injured shoulder without touching—she knew better than to make contact without permission.

Even family adhered to the boundaries I'd established around my scarred body.

The right side of my torso remained a wasteland of rippled tissue and grafted skin, a permanent reminder of childhood's fiery end.

“Roberto has requested to move the meeting forward to noon,” Viktor reported from the doorway, his bulk filling the frame with contained menace.

My head of security remained the perfect study in controlled violence, his accent betraying his Russian origins despite years in London.

“Harrison thinks he's attempting to catch us unprepared after last night's encounter.”

I considered this development while selecting a tie from the adjoining dressing room—like every key location in the estate, the medical suite included a fully stocked wardrobe for immediate changes when blood or other complications required fresh clothing.

The blood-red silk would draw attention away from my injury while sending a subtle message to Vega.

Colour as communication, intimidation through aesthetics.

“Then we'll disappoint him,” I replied, fingers executing a perfect Windsor knot despite the protest from my injured shoulder. “Have Dominic prepare the contingency package. If Vega wants escalation, we'll oblige him thoroughly.”

Viktor nodded once, withdrawing to execute my instructions with his characteristic silent competence.

The estate hummed with heightened activity beyond my sanctuary, security protocols shifting to accommodate the changed timeline.

Ravenswood functioned like a living organism, responding to threat and opportunity with orchestrated movements that Sophia and I conducted from its heart.

“I've taken the liberty of researching potential replacements for Montgomery,” Sophia said, placing a folder on the marble countertop.

“Three candidates with exceptional qualifications. All have experience with severe trauma cases, all can be brought under appropriate control through various pressure points. ”

I glanced at the folder without opening it. “Financial leverage?”

“One with gambling debts, one with an expensive custody battle, one with a younger brother in legal trouble.” Sophia smiled thinly. “I prefer the third. Familial loyalty creates more reliable control than mere financial desperation.”

My grandmother's pragmatism had been forged through decades navigating London's criminal aristocracy.

Sentiment never clouded her calculation, a trait I'd inherited and refined.

People were assets or liabilities, sometimes both simultaneously.

Their weaknesses provided handholds for control, their strengths dictated their utility.

“Schedule interviews after the Vega situation stabilises,” I conceded, knowing she would persist otherwise. “Background check depths comparable to government clearance. Full surveillance before any meeting.”

Sophia nodded, satisfaction evident in the slight relaxation of her shoulders. She'd won this minor battle, as she often did through strategic persistence rather than direct confrontation. “I've arranged for one to be at Ravenswood this evening. “

I frowned at her presumption but let it pass.

There were more pressing concerns than my grandmother's manipulative scheduling.

“Have Viktor assign additional security to Montgomery until a replacement is confirmed. The Vegas might target our medical resources—the bullet damage to the Bentley will be noticed if their cleanup crews processed the scene, and wounded leadership is always a strategic target.”

“Already handled,” she replied, her smile acknowledging our shared strategic thinking. “And I've moved your art acquisition to the secure vault. The Caravaggio is exquisite, by the way. Its darkness suits your collection.”

With a final assessing glance at my appearance, Sophia departed, leaving behind her subtle perfume and unspoken concerns.

I studied my reflection once more—the scarred half of my face partially visible despite careful grooming, the permanent asymmetry that ensured I was never forgotten and rarely perceived accurately.

The monster and the man, coexisting in uneasy balance.

It was time to meet the Vegas on the battlefield of business, where bloodshed wore tailored suits and violence was executed through calculated words rather than bullets. Both theatres required the same cold control, the same willingness to inflict necessary damage.

Harrison's office projected calculated power—thirty-eighth floor overlooking the Thames, original artwork strategically placed for maximum impact, subtle security measures disguised as architectural features.

The glass and steel monument to financial dominance housed the legitimate face of Calloway enterprises, the buffer between criminal operations and public perception.

I studied my financial director with habitual assessment as he reviewed documents at his desk.

Harrison maintained the perfect image of distinguished competence, his silver hair expertly cut, his bespoke suit announcing success without shouting it.

His Windsor knot matched mine in flawless execution, his manicured nails betraying no nervous habits or manual labour.

“The Rotterdam shipment projections exceed initial estimates,” Harrison explained, sliding forward documentation with characteristic care. “We'll clear forty percent above target, primarily through the new distribution channels you established last quarter.”

I scanned the figures while monitoring Harrison's micro-expressions.

Twenty years as my father's most trusted advisor, then my grandfather's, and now mine, yet something in Harrison's deference had always triggered my instinctive suspicion—a sense of calculation behind the loyalty that never fully aligned.

Perhaps because he'd pulled me from the flames that night, creating a debt I could never fully repay or escape.

“The Vega incursion affects these projections,” I noted, indicating territory maps marked with distribution networks. “After today's meeting, we may need to adjust operational parameters depending on whether this remains contained or requires expansion.”

Harrison nodded, making notes in his immaculate handwriting.

“I've prepared several contingency scenarios.” He hesitated, eyes flickering to my injured shoulder despite the careful tailoring that concealed it.

“Last night's incident suggests Roberto may be losing control of his organisation. His nephew Michael has been consolidating support among the younger members, advocating more aggressive expansion.”

“Internal power struggle,” I mused, considering the strategic implications. “Potentially useful if properly exploited. Roberto's rational self-interest makes him predictable. The nephew is an unknown variable.”

“Ambitious, violent, lacks strategic patience,” Harrison offered. “Military training but dishonourable discharge. Rumours of excessive force during operations. He considers his uncle's methods outdated.”