Page 27 of King of Violence

Felix looks at me, his brows knitting together. “Going where?”

“Work,” I reply smoothly.

His frown deepens. “You have a job?”

“Part-time,” I say, keeping my tone light.

Felix leans against the front door, trying to exude ease when I can see every inch of him is screaming tension. “What kind of job?”

I chuckle, zipping up my jacket. “The kind that pays.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly not buying it. “What do you actually do?”

Shit,nowhe wants to pay attention to me?

I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Family business. Can I buy you lunch tomorrow?”

He doesn’t look amused. “Trying to change the subject? That’s not suspicious at all.”

“Relax. I’m not cheating on you, baby.” I smirk, but my heart is hammering in my ears. “My family owns a few businesses in town, and I work at our sports store.”

His eyes narrow, clearly skeptical. “What do you do at the store?”

“Stock shelves, deal with customers, that kind of thing,” I say with a casual shrug. “Nothing exciting.”

“Convenient,” he says, his tone dry.

I lean into him, meeting his gaze with a smile. “Convenient’s my middle name.”

“Julian Convenient Greco. Has a nice ring to it.”

I laugh, straightening up. “Don’t miss me too much, counselor.”

As I walk away, I feel his eyes on my back, burning into me with that familiar mix of curiosity and suspicion. He’s too sharp for his own good, and the lie feels heavier than I expected.

I slip into my car and pull out my phone.

Elijah:Don’t keep Dad waiting. Be on time.

I let out a slow breath and shove my phone back into my pocket. Felix doesn’t need to know the truth—not about this.

Not yet.

???

The estatealways feels too quiet, the kind of silence that creeps under your skin and sets your nerves on edge. It’s a sprawling mansion with marble floors, priceless art on the walls, and crystal chandeliers that seem to glow a little too brightly. On the surface, it’s a picture-perfect example of old-money opulence. Beneath it? The rot runs deep.

As I step into the study, my chest tightens. The room is dimly lit, the heavy scent of cigars mingling with the faint tang of aged leather. My father sits behind his oversized mahogany desk, his posture as rigid as ever. Elijah leans casually against the bar, a glass of scotch in hand, the faint smirk on his face already grating on my nerves.

“You’re late,” my father says without looking up, his voice like a blade slicing through the air.

“Had class,” I reply evenly.

Father glances at me, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Class,” he repeats, the word dripping with disdain.

“School is a convenience we allow you, Julian, not an excuse for insubordination.”

I grind my teeth as I step farther into the room.

---