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35
I hang up abruptly,slipping the phone into my pocket as I turn. My gaze stabs into Oliver, and a red mist clouds my vision as I walk back into the office.
He looks up, smiling.
“All good—?”
He stiffens as I storm right over to him, and then balks as I backhand the glass of scotch out of his hands. The tumbler shatters against the fireplace, but I’m already on him.
Back when we were all young, when the Kings and Villains first came together, we’d meet as a group on Fridays, at the Red Dragon pub. And once a month, on one of those Fridays, we’d take our pints with us through to the private back room, to which only we held the keys.
A staircase in that private room led to the old subbasement beneath the pub. And that’s where kings and villains would collide for the evening.
A fight night.
There were gloves involved, and no one was trying to murder anyone. But it was a way to get aggressions out—aggressions from life, from the cutthroat world of business school as we all scrambled for our future positions as world conquerors.
All of us fought hard. Christ, Braddock could knock the religion out of you. Kristoff had almost certainly killed with his hands before at that point. And Maddox? It’s a fucking miracle no one ever died with him in the ring.
It was either Thomas or me, though, who had a way of always being the last man standing. We can credit growing up being trained together by my father for that.
But Oliver? Oliver stood his own well enough. And damn if he didn’t strap on gloves every single fight night. But Prince has never been a fighter.
I know this because I’ve fought him fifty times before. And that was twenty-something years ago. He’s kept himself in peak shape since then.
But he’s still not a fighter.
My second swing knocks him off the couch onto his knees. I snarl, taking advantage of the surprise I have on him, pounding him in the face three more times before he slumps groaning to the ground, his eyes swimming
“Not yet,” I snarl, yanking him up by the collar.
I slap him, hard, keeping him conscious.
“You don’t get to tap out yet, you piece ofshit,” I hiss dangerously, seething as I lower my face to his.
“Noel,” he groans, swaying on his knees. “What thefuckare you—”
“Burying you,” I rasp darkly. His eyes widen, fear creeping up his neck into his face.
“I am going. To. Fucking.Bury you, Prince,” I snarl dangerously.
Fury thunders through my veins, igniting me, turning me into a demon of vengeance and hate.
“Noel…please,” he chokes, bringing his hands up.
I slap them away. With a snarl, I grab him by the collar and yank him across the floor towards my desk. I drop him like a sack of shit as I go to one of the drawers and pull out the file. He groans, writhing on the floor as I storm back to stand over him, my eyes narrowed lethally.
“I have your plane taking off from Milan and landing in London that night,” I spit, yanking that document out of the folder and tossing it at him on the floor.
“The night shedied.”
His face pales.
“Wait, Noel—”
“And I have youleavingLondon again at three in the bloody morning, right after,” I hiss. “Andfucking offback to Italy.”
He starts to shake his head.
