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Tempest has been moved into my penthouse for all of three hours when I find myself standing outside her bedroom door. I knock, and when there’s no answer, I simply open the door and walk in.
“Um,hello?!”
Her voice comes from the ensuite bathroom. The door isn’t shut all the way, so I march over and rap my knuckles on the doorframe.
“You decent?”
“No?”
I walk in anyway.
“Are you fucking serious!?” Tempest is quickly buttoning up her pants as she stands from the toilet. She glares daggers at me. “What thehell, Dante!”
“Did I interrupt something fun?”
She rolls her eyes and glances back at the toilet. “Only if you’re into pee,” she mutters.
Spoiler: I’m not.
“And if I was?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ew?”
“We don’t kink shame in this house.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, it’s still in the toilet if you want to like, I don’t know…whatever you do with people’s pee?” She makes a grossed out face.
“This is what I do with it.”
She shivers as I walk past her and flush the toilet. Tempest’s face burns as she moves over to the sink to wash her hands.
“What do you want, Dante?”
This is how it’s been since the wedding. And I don’t need to be a psychologist to understand that what she’s doing is overcompensating.
She thinks she shared too much. She opened up too much, made herself too vulnerable. And now, she’s yanking things back in the other direction by being her usual smart-mouth, smug little brat of a persona.
As if that’s going to make me forget what she told me, or the way her cunt felt when she came all over my cock.
“I need you to dress up.”
She’s not the bait, but Iamgoing hunting in a week or so.
Ostensibly, the dinner I’m holding is to meet and greet some potential new investors in Venom. Some mafia types will be attending, as well as mafia-adjacent finance guys. But it’s all a cover. What I’m really doing is hunting.
When my older sister Claudia was first taken from us, we all thought it was just random violence. That she’d been out on the wrong night, and crossed the wrong guy, who drugged her drink, raped her, and then killed her to cover his crimes.
At least, that’s what the police report says.
But I have a way of digging, and prodding, and ripping at the edges of things until I’ve peeked behind the curtain and I’m satisfied that I know the truth. And nothing about that report made me think we had reached the truth, so I dug deeper.
That’s when I uncovered them.
They call themselves the Apex Club. They’re mostly very connected, very rich, and from very prominent, untouchable families. They’re the type of men who think the world belongs to them.
There’s plenty of private “old boys” clubs out there where rich, entitled douchebags can drink together and congratulate each other onbeingrich, entitled douchebags.
Apex Club is next level.
