Page 36 of The Owner's Temptation

Maybe I am too.

Maybe that’s okay.

It’s late.

Rain clings to the windshield in silver rivulets, catching the dull amber glow of the overhead streetlight like veins of gold. The engine idles for a moment before I kill it, leaving nothing but the soft patter of droplets on metal and the ticking cool-down of the car’s frame.

The road is slick, black as oil, reflecting the halo of the lamplight in puddles along the curb.

I don't get out.

Not yet.

My fingers rest loosely on the steering wheel, tapping once—twice—before I catch myself. It’s a twitch I thought I broke years ago. One that comes back on occasion.

This place hasn’t changed. Same cracked asphalt. Same rusted-out signage above the old freight entrance. Same scent of oil, rain, and cigarette smoke clinging to the concrete bones of the building. If ghosts exist, this place is full of them.

I haven’t been here in years.

Not since the night I told Lorenzo I was out.

The night I walked away from the family and everything it meant.

And now… here I am again.

Back at the warehouse. Back at the beginning.

Only this time, it’s not loyalty I’m questioning—it’s peace. And whether men like us ever really get to have it.

I grab the bottle of whiskey sitting in the seat next to me.

Dalmore 25.

It’s the one Lorenzo and I used to drink after deals went clean—after bodies were buried and the books balanced in our favor. Top shelf. Aged twelve years longer than most men survive in this business.

We always said it was the kind of thing meant to be savored slowly. Something for victories.

But this isn’t a victory.

Not now.

Not after what I did.

They’re watching. I know that much. Always eyes here. Perched in corners, behind tinted glass. Probably a sniper two rooftops over, just in case I came looking for blood instead of peace.

But that’s not what I’m here for.

I didn’t come to reignite old wars.

I came to make sure a new one doesn’t start.

Because if it does—if it’s him versus me—there won’t be a city left when it’s over.

I walk forward, my footsteps loud against the wet gravel, and stop in front of the metal door.

My fist clenches once around the bottle’s neck before I knock. Two sharp raps.

Then I wait.

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