Page 40 of Feral King

Ethan shakes his head, easing into one of the chairs in the small meeting area in the corner of the office.

“He’s right,” Ethan says. “About Alexander.”

“I know. Alexander’s been building his coalition for months. He knew I’d come back. He’s a shithead, but he’s not stupid.”

Ethan reaches forward and takes a glass bottle of spring water from the table, twisting it open.

“His parties weren’t just about booze and women—they were about networking, cementing friendships.”

“And building loyalty.” I sigh, shaking my head. “My brother might be an incompetent CEO, but he’s a gifted politician. And sometimes, those types are the most dangerous.”

I take a moment to check myself. Alexander is my little brother, and it’s always tempting to see him as such. But he’s more than that. I think about how he smiled through the humiliation at the gala, as if everything were happening according to plan.

And I think about the board meeting, how practiced it allseemed, as if it were more about letting methinkI had the upper hand, rather than a genuine loss for him.

“We have three weeks to make sure the families are on our side.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Take a page from my brother.”

The corner of Ethan’s mouth curls just a bit. “Yachts and escorts to win them over?”

I chuckle. “Face-to-face meetings. Taking time to listen to their concerns, convince them that they’ll be addressed in the years ahead. And I’m going to bring them results—Asian shipping routes, fully operational, signed and sealed. Let’s see whose friendship matters more when there’s actual money on the table.”

Ethan nods. “I’ll start making some calls, get you some face time.”

“Do that.”

I turn back to the window, letting the sight of Manhattan wash over me.

Dobrov is going to make a move—of that I have no doubt. And depending on what it is, all the diplomacy in the world might not matter one bit.

Men like him crave power.

And they’ll kill to get it.

CHAPTER 14

JULIAN

The bar was Alexander’s choice. It was one of those places in the Meatpacking District that charges twenty-eight dollars for a cocktail and prefers to call itself a “speakeasy.”

Low lighting washes over a bartender-slash-mixologist with a waxed handlebar mustache, who prepares each drink with the seriousness one might expect from a soldier defusing a bomb.

The place is trendy, expensive, and flashy—right up Alexander’s alley.

He’s already there when I arrive, a bourbon, neat, in front of him, one leg crossed over the other, a cocky smile on his face.

Part of me wanted to reject him outright when I’d received the text. He said he wanted to meet and come to an arrangement based on “brotherly love and respect.” But I’m here hoping that he’s coming to his senses and seeing how goddamn stupid it would be to continuefighting.

“There’s my big bro,” he says with a grin as I slide into the booth.

The bartender approaches, as if he’d been waiting for me to arrive. He places a glass of something dark and amber in front of me. I lean forward to catch the scent.

“Macallan 18. Not even here for thirty seconds, and you’re already trying to butter me up.”

“We’re here for drinks, so I ordered you a drink. And your favorite, I might add.”