Page 143 of The Owner's Temptation

Outside, the night carries a strange stillness, the kind that hums in the air just after something violent has ended—but before the next blow is struck. The chaos of the ballroom fades behind me, muffled by thick walls and the distance I place between us with every step.

No one follows.

No alarms blare.

Just the soft hush of the wind brushing past the marble columns and the subtle click of my shoes against the stone drive.

My car waits where I left it—a midnight-black Aston Martin gleaming beneath the amber lights of the valet circle. Sleek, understated, predatory. Like me, it belongs to the shadows more than the spotlight.

My men are already positioned around the perimeter, unseen by most but ready for anything. If someone inside decides to retaliate tonight, they'll find they're already too late.

I reach for the door handle, already imagining the satisfying quiet of the cabin, the engine’s low growl, the open road stretching ahead.

And then—a sound like a gunshot fractures the calm.

The crash is sudden, violent. A sharp burst of shattering glass cuts through the night as something slams into the front of the car. I pause, hand still on the handle, eyes narrowing as a web of cracks spreads across the windshield.

I don’t need to look closely to know what it was.

The whiskey bottle.

The bottle hurled from above, now nothing more than jagged pieces glinting across the hood. The glass has broken clean through the sheen of the vehicle, amber liquid bleeding across the paint like an accusation.

I glance up, slow and deliberate.

A window above the ballroom remains open, its sheer curtain fluttering like a ghost’s breath. I see no face behind it, no silhouette framed in outrage or fear. But presence isn’t necessary. The message speaks louder than any scream.

There will be no truce.

No compromise.

No peace.

Whatever civility once existed between us has shattered, right along with that bottle.

I linger there for a breath longer than I should, the crackled windshield gleaming beneath the soft lighting, a mirror of what comes next. Then, without a word or even a sigh, I open the car door and slide into the driver’s seat.

The engine roars to life with the press of a button, its power coiled and ready beneath my fingertips. I guide the machine out onto the street, the quiet purr of the tires a stark contrast to the destruction I leave behind.

Lorenzo made his choice tonight.

Now he’ll live with the consequences.

Because this isn’t just about territory anymore, or business, or some petty grudge born of ego and betrayal.

This is aboutthe empire.

His just crumbled but it looks like my old friend wants to fall a little deeper into Hell.

Tonight, is the Companions Mixer.

It’s one of The Ledger’s most anticipated events—a curated, high-society evening where new and old clients mix and mingle with the Companions.

A social buffet, dressed up in silk and candlelight, where contracts are whispered over cocktails and glances hold promises. No one signs anything tonight, but deals begin here.

The trainees, all eight of us still under active sponsorship, are invited to attend—not to participate, not officially. We're still considered off-limits. But the exposure matters. It’s good practice, they say.

A chance to observe the game before we’re allowed to play.

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