Page 72 of Velvet Corruption

“No,” he said, not missing a beat. “You’re getting sloppy.”

He didn’t sit. Just moved behind his desk, arms crossed like a man who’d already made up his mind. Like a man who’d spent the last decade growing into the full weight of his power…a man who was absolutelydonewith my bullshit.

“Sit.”

I obeyed, sinking into the chair like it might swallow me whole. My palms itched. I ran a hand through my hair to keep from fidgeting.

“I assume you want a status report,” I said, even though we both knew that wasn’t really what he was after.

“You’re psychic. What’s going on?”

“The month isn’t looking great, but we have a big shipment coming in.”

“Define ‘not great.’” Tristan’s voice was sharp, his gaze locked onto mine.

I sighed. “The police crackdown on nightlife is killing us. We’re down at least fifteen percent across our main distribution chains, but more than that, it’s making our people nervous. The cops are busting clubs, but if we push too hard, they’ll start targeting apartments next. We’ve already lost two major suppliers in Back Bay.”

Tristan exhaled through his nose. “That’s really fucking bad, Kieran.”

“It is if it keeps up, but I think we can just change tack. We need to start spending a little money on people higher up the chain.”

He drummed his fingers against the desk. “There are no other avenues?”

“There are other avenues, but nothing as lucrative as nightlife. We can be dynamic. We can change it,” I said. “Casinos, escort rings, underground poker—it’s all still functional. But movingproduct at clubs has always had the lowest overhead. Losing it hurts. Obviously, we can move product out of someone’s apartment. But it’s an economies of scale sort of thing.”

Tristan’s gaze sharpened. “What about the shipment?”

“High-quality, straight from Rotterdam. No bullshit, no fentanyl. But we need it to clear customs clean. If this gets flagged, we’re in deep shit.”

Tristan sat down, then leaned back in his chair. “Then make sure it doesn’t.”

“Don’t worry too much,” I said. “I mean, look, brothels and casinos aren’t going away. People aren’t suddenly going to stop using just because they can’t get intoChameleon.”

Tristan considered this. “Right. Chameleon. So what about our other clubs?”

“They’re a problem,” I said. “We have to be squeaky clean right now because the police are watching us too closely, so we’re cutting off bottle service and moving everything to backroom sales, but the fact that they’re watching us is making it harder to wash the money on site. We’re already paying three councilmen to keep places open, and the heat’s still on, so I don’t think there’s anything we can do about that for now.”

“So what? We just put our heads down and wait? That’s your plan?”

I sighed. “Yeah. It’s honestly not a bad plan. We’re not bleeding money or anything—it’s just taking longer to fix than it shouldbecause I’ve got my hands full playing babysitter to a political landmine.”

Tristan watched me for a few seconds, obviously trying to decide if he was going to call me out for the dig. He didn’t.

Instead, he smiled—cool, measured, just enough bite behind it to remind me who the fuck was in charge. He moved over to the liquor cabinet, pulling out two tumblers and glancing over his shoulder.

“Great. Well, if you’re too busy cleaning up your mess, I’ll have Liam take care of distro—whiskey?”

“Yes to the whiskey, no to Liamo,” I said, bristling a little. Distribution made up the bulk of my income. The son of a bitch was trying to carve a huge slice out of it, and he was pouring me whiskey and himself a sparkling water like this wasn’t a slap in the face. “That won’t be necessary. Besides, isn’t our little brother busy with some redhead?”

Tristan passed me the whiskey, holding his water like it already put a bad taste in his mouth. “I promised Adriana I wouldn’t drink before lunch, even on weekdays,” he said. “But you’re making it awfully difficult.”

I held my whiskey up to him. “I’ll drink on your behalf.”

Tristan snorted. “You need to be straight with me if the DA thing plus distro is too much…”

“It’s not too much, lad. I’ve got this.”

He sat now, setting his glass down on the desk. Tristan leaned forward, his fingers threaded in front of his face, his brow knitted. “Okay. And how’s that going, anyway? Uncovered anything to get rid of her? What’s your strategy?”