But no, they remain the same. Asad is demanding my presence in the conference room on the second floor. A burst of emotions scatter through me—confusion, disquiet, nervousness.
In all my years of working at HoC, I’ve never been called to the second floor, the secure space where Cross business is discussed. I’ve had no reason to—as a woman, I had no place there. So to be summoned to the inner sanctum of the organization now…
“Hey, I’ll be back. I have a meeting. Not sure how long this will take, but I’ll text if it’s going to be longer than a couple of hours,” I inform Perla, Gus, and Jaq.
Rightfully, the three of them glance up, wearing matching expression of bewilderment. They, too, recognize I’ve never been asked to attend a meeting. It’s not just unusual, it’s an aberration.
“Okay,” Perla says, drawing the word out. She looks over her shoulder at the other two before returning her gaze to me. “Just hit us with a thumbs-up text in the group chat or something to let us know you’re good.”
“Or alive,” Jaq adds. They’re not joking.
Shit, me neither.
I nod, then turn and head for the lab door and slip out of my white coat. Minutes later, I step out of the elevator onto the second floor, and my footsteps are swallowed by the oatmeal-colored carpet.
Nerves jump in my stomach like a live wire. I’m not sure what I’m walking into, or why I’m walking into it at all. And there’s no noise leaking from the closed doors on either side of the corridor to give me any hint since this whole floor is soundproof. The hallway is no different from any other in this building: carpet, generic photographs of famous LA hotspots and landscapes on the wall, just… plain and nondescript.
This space is the perfect setup. To the curious eye, all they see are business-casual-dressed employees entering the Castle, showing up for work, but they’re not the everyday personnel of a fashion house. Unlike the designers, artists, publicists, and other HoC staff, the people entering the lobby are drug dealers, smugglers, thieves, killers. My grandfather and Marcus were the kings of “hide in plain sight.” It’s the reason why the Feds and law enforcement have never built a case around or even suspected House of Cross of fronting one of the largest drug empires on the West Coast. Well, that, and Marcus, just like my grandfather did, had most of the LAPD and high-ranking officials in the FBI in his back pocket, loyal to him by money and secrets.
Following the directions of the text Asad sent me, once I reach the door of the conference room, I notice the black box beside the jamb. I press my hand to it, and a blue light flashes, scanning my print. Seconds later, the lock clicks, and I pull the handle and enter the room.
Like the corridor outside, the conference room resembles any other that graces the floors of the Castle. A long, rectangular glass table bisects the room, bodies parked in the leather rolling chairs on either side of it. More of those chairs line the walls. A large monitor hangs suspended from the ceiling at the front of theroom, ready for someone to hook up their laptop and display a presentation across its screen.
The main difference between this room and the one on the executive level is that about thirty lethal members of a crime family occupy these chairs instead of CEOs and marketing staff.
As if on cue, every head turns in my direction. Except for Asad. Standing at the front of the long glass table, his gaze is already on me. And of everyone, it’s his gaze that’s the heaviest. His that’s the most… intimate. His that sends a rush of heat rushing through me like Noah’s flood and has my poor abused pussy clenching around an emptiness that now is shaped like his dick.
I recognize several people in the room, including Sam and my stepfamily. And Deacon and Xavier. Surprise whispers through me at their attendance. I flick a glance at Asad. What game is he playing, allowing traitors and his would-be killers in the room?
To my further shock, not only is Michelle seated at the table, but so are several other women. Though beautiful, they all bear that sharp-edged, hardened demeanor of those who’ve seen a lot of things and done more.
He beckons me forward with a curl of his fingers.
The nerves that beset me in the hall dial up a notch, but damned if I’ll let him or anyone in this cavernous room peep it. As much as I hate the bastard, Marcus’s neglect and rejection are the gifts that keep on giving—they’ve empowered me with the talent to exude I-don’t-give-a-fuck-ness like the loud-ass special-edition perfume HoC rolls out at Christmas.
So as I stride toward the only available seat next to Asad, with each step my sore thighs and vagina reminding me exactly what I had been up to last night. I lift my head up and my shoulders are back and straight. I meet every stare with a calm that is challenged by the whirlwind of questions in my head and twisting in my belly.
I approach Asad, and he doesn’t bother to hide his molten perusal of my body in the black pinstripe suit with the matching corset top underneath the jacket. His nostrils slightly flare,and my nipples tighten in response. For a moment, I can feel his mouth at my breasts, feel his teeth grazing the tips before tugging on the piercings. Feel his tongue soothing the small sting with slow, thorough sucks and licks.
Shit.
Thank God this suit is black. Otherwise this whole damn room would have a front-row seat to the wet spot between my legs. Unable to hold his hot, silver stare, I glance away and crash right into Michelle’s. The gleaming hatred there does the job of cooling the unwanted and resented lust for her son. I can always count on my stepmother to reality-slap me, to remind me that I don’t stand among friends or colleagues. I’m among strangers and potential enemies—because unknowns are enemies until they’re not.
I smile my thanks at Michelle.
Movement next to her draws my attention, and I notice Kareem. Unlike last night, his expression is closed off, distant. The flattened mouth and narrowed eyes don’t give off disdain and animosity like his mother’s, but this is not the man that joked with me either.
“Ember, have a seat right here.” Asad motions to an empty chair at the head of the table and to the left of his. Reluctantly, I sink into the seat with a suspicion of what’s about to come. “Thank you all for coming to this meeting on such short notice. I’ll try not to keep you too long, but there are some things we need to discuss that can’t be put off. The sooner we address them, the sooner and stronger we can move into this next phase of the Cross organization.”
He takes a step back, and that steady gray gaze moves over the room, landing on each person. The protracted silence skates on, uncomfortable, but Asad seems unbothered by it. Power emanates from him, and it rolls through the air like crackling surges that skip over skin, lifting hair.
Goddamn.
It’s not fair that one man has a soul so black, but is thisdamn fine. The intricate stitch braids from last night still look neat and beautiful, as does his thick, glistening beard that frames his full lips. The navy-blue, three-piece suit fits him like it’s obsessed with his ass, fawning over those wide shoulders and chest, clinging to that washboard stomach and strong, powerful thighs. When God was creating him, He said,Nah, been here, done that, and just passed him off to Satan to finish the job.
“You’ve no doubt already picked up on some of the changes, but still, look around you. Note the people in this room.” I did as Asad directed even though I’d already done so when I first entered the conference room. One person I didn’t see? Justus. “This is the new leadership of the Cross organization.”
Murmurs and a low grumbling ripple through the space.
