My throat burns, my eyes throb, my vision blurs and I can barely scrape in a breath.
Part of me craves darkness to take me away from all of this, but Beatie's face floods my thoughts so I nod as desperately as I can.
He releases me and drags me from the hedge just in time.
Calvin rushes around the corner, then slows when he spots me.
"No need to get emotional," Mathew says loudly. "We all love you and you're making us so proud."
I duck my head and nod quickly, fighting to catch my breath while turning my back on Calvin.
"And one more thing," he whispers with just as much hate as before. "If you can't get him to want you, make him jealous. If Kon doesn’t want to sleep with you willingly, then make it seem like a fucking challenge."
7
KONSTANTIN
"Eight in total," Ethan says as he hurries alongside me, struggling to keep up with my pace through the manor toward the back patio. "We've contained the damage to four of them. Three are lost completely and one unconfirmed because the fire is still going. Crews are out there now but honestly…" He pauses to breathe. "It's not looking good."
This is fucked.
I've been nothing but fair in my dealings with these Italian bastards and they respond by burning down as many of my cookhouses as they can get their hands on.
How they know exactly where to hit is why I've called this meeting.
I stride out onto the patio where six of my generals have been waiting for an hour under the uncomfortable midday sun.
They all stiffen as soon as they catch sight of me, and a couple force themselves to appear casual by drinking from glasses long absent of ice.
The only chilled glass that remains is mine, at the head of the table with enough ice to drown out the alcohol.
"Gentlemen." Taking my seat, I pick up my glass and drink slowly, taunting every general that sits there stiff with sweat and aching skin from being forced to wait out here for me for so long. "We have a problem."
Ethan stands just behind me and slips his electronic tablet onto the table before me, then steps back.
"A problem indeed," agrees the closest general.
"Eight cookhouses. Given how many we have in total, eight isn't that many to lose, but I do not care about that. I do not care about the product. Product can be replaced. I do not care about the staff. Staff can be rehired. Buildings can be rebuilt. What I care about?" My sharp gaze drifts around the table and locks eyes with each general in turn. "How thefuckdo these Italian cunts know where to hit?"
An uncomfortable murmur rises around the table and one general to my left leans forward. "I'm sure you're aware we uncovered a mole downtown. He was selling information regarding you to the highest bid?—"
"Never mind that," interrupts another general. "This is on you, Konstantin."
I lock eyes with him, demanding he elaborate without saying a word. He falls silent, though as all eyes turn to him.
"Explain," Ethan barks from behind me.
"You killed the Don's son. Did you really think murdering him would come with no consequences?"
"He stole from me," I reply quietly. "You are well aware that I do not tolerate such shit."
"Sure," the general replies. "But you still killed a prince. So the Italians are pissed and you would understand that if you had your own son to lose."
I grit my teeth.
Even in the midst of a war, these trembling assholes still find a way to twist things back to my lack of heir.
They can't see past that, and remain convinced that I would be a better and more ruthless leader if I had something that precious to lose.
