Page 103 of Goldflame

As if I give a fuck what these people think of my appearance. I nod anyway, if only to make her leave faster. Once she’s gone, I pour another finger of whiskey.

Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I do care what they think. Maybe that’s why I sold Aurelia—to prove to the Consortium that I’m as ruthless, as capable, as my father was. To silence the whispers that I’m too weak and volatile to lead.

Maybe. But honestly, I don’t know what my own motivations are anymore. Life, my head, is too fucked up from everything that’s happened.

But… Aurelia earned her punishment. She killed Adrian. She killed Lucas. She defied me again and again and again, making a mockery of my authority. So I guess my motivations are layers. I sold her partly to prove something.

Mostly, I sold her because she deserved it.

I swallow another mouthful of whiskey and leave the office to changeclothes.

The party is in full swing by the time I make my appearance. Lots of chatter, clinking glasses, and laughter. It’s familiar. These are the sounds of my childhood—the backdrop to a thousand nights spent hiding in my room, counting the hours until the monsters who called themselves business associates would leave.

Now I’m expected to mingle with them. To lead them. And apparently, I’m doing the world’s shittiest job at it.

I grab a glass of whiskey from a passing server. The alcohol isn’t dulling the edges of my thoughts the way I’d hoped. If anything, it’s making everything sharper, more vivid, more unbearable. I’ve been drinking so much lately, I must be getting used to it.

Now I understand why my father preferred harder drugs at times.

Sergio Castellano approaches me, launching into some tedious complaint about shipping routes. I nod occasionally, but my mind is elsewhere.

I’ve been making decisions for weeks now, fumbling through ‘supply chains’ and ‘distribution networks’ and human trafficking schemes. And I’m fucking it up. Shipments are getting seized, profits are dwindling, alliances are fraying. The Consortium is losing faith in my leadership, and I can’t even blame them.

Adrian would’ve known what to do. Adrian always knew what to do.

The familiar ache of grief tightens around my throat.I miss my brother. Not just for his strategic mind, not just for his ability to navigate the annoying details of our family business, but I misshim. For the steady presence he provided. He kept me more sane than I realized.

I miss the way he would sigh when I’d done something particularly reckless, the slight shake of his head that said more disappointment than words ever could. I miss knowing that no matter how badly I fucked up, there was someone who would help me clean up the mess.

Now there’s just me, treading water in the deep end, with the weight of a criminal empire dragging me down.

“Don’t you agree?” Castellano’s voice finally penetrates my thoughts.

I blink, focusing on his face. “Sure,” I say, having no fucking clue what I’m agreeing to.

He smiles. “Excellent. I’ll send Valentine the details tomorrow.”

He moves away, and I drain my glass, the alcohol doing nothing to ease the churning in my gut. This is unbearable. I’m drowning here, surrounded by people who would slit my throat if it meant gaining even a sliver of my power.

My gaze drifts across the room, seeking anything to distract me from the suffocating weight of my thoughts. In the far corner, I spot two men I can’t currently name. They’re arguing and things look heated. Their body language is tense, aggressive, with lots of gesturing.

Perfect.

I stalk toward them, craving the fight in their eyes since it’s been too long since I visited The Den. Theirargument grows louder as I approach, words like “territory” and “respect” floating above the noise of the party.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, inserting myself into their space.

The one with a mustache opens his mouth to answer, but I silence him with a raised hand. “Actually, it doesn’t matter,” I say. “Settle your disagreement with a fight.”

They stare at me like I’m speaking Martian before letting out laughs.

“That wasn’t a question,” I tell them, the anticipation of seeing bloody fists already coiling in my stomach.

Their faces pale, and they glance around for help. The crowd around us has gone quiet, unsure whether to be shocked or entertained.

“Go on,” I say. My voice has the sharp edge of boredom, but inside my blood is humming, demanding action.

They’re still hesitating, frozen in place by disbelief and fear.

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