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He grabbed the stack and studied it, weighing it in one hand before reaching for mine with the other.
No verbal confirmation.
No further communication.
Just an unspoken agreement that couldn’t be traced to either one of us.
I trusted Leo.
I trusted my girls. I didn’t hire them without thoroughly vetting them first. Nothing ever left the privacy of the VIP booths.
And I trusted that Jared knew exactly where he’d end up if he didn’t play his part.
Now that everything was all set up for Lincoln, it was time to go home and handle the brown-eyed, brunette pain in my dick.
I was halfway to the door when one of my dancers ploughed through the crowd and crashed into my chest. Blood was pouring from her nose. Her lip was busted, and her eye socket was swollen and bruised. She said a man came at her from behind, then slammed her face into the brick wall out back, and then shoved a piece of paper into her fist. I fired security before she finished her story for letting that shit happen. I read the note as she clung to me and cried, smearing blood all over my fucking shirt.
You mess with what’s mine, I’ll mess with what’s yours.
I snapped a pic of the note and the girl, then sent it to Caspian and Grey. The message was loud and fucking clear, and it made my thirst for revenge damn near unbearable.
Winston Radcliffe may have been the king of Ayelswick, but the New York underground was my motherfucking kingdom, built with my own ruthless hands. Anyone who fucked with my empire would be brought to their knees. It didn’t matter to me how I had to do it.
