Page 104 of Goldflame

“Now,” I command. “Or I’ll shoot you both.” I pull my suit jacket back just enough to give them a glimpse of the gun at my side.

Finally, Mustache draws his hands into fists and forces himself into an awkward stance. The other man swallows hard and does the same. They look ridiculous—two overgrown schoolboys about to slap each other on a playground. I wonder if either has ever fought before.

There’s a ripple of movement behind me as people clear space in the room. Furniture scrapes against the polished floor as it’s pushed aside. The circle tightens aroundthem.

And then they start.

It’s pathetic at first—half-hearted shoves and clumsy jabs—but it slowly gains momentum. They stumble over their own feet more than anything else, but there’s an element of desperation in their movements that makes it almost compelling.

Almost.

But I crave more.

Since it seems they’re both weary of actually making contact, I step in the middle and punch Mustache first. He gasps and staggers back while I spin and punch the other fucker, hard.

“There. Now stop being fucking cowards and fight!”

The crowd gives a collective gasp as both wobble back into the center of the circle. Blood trickles from Mustache’s nose. He wipes it with the back of his hand, eyes finally flaring to life with rage, and throws himself at the other man.

This time, they really go at it—fists flying and bodies slamming against each other—until Mustache gets the upper hand and tackles the other guy to the floor.

They’re ready to stop but I step closer and say, “Only one of you gets to leave.”

The room stills, everyone holding their breath as they wait to see what happens next.

“Julian.” My mother’s voice rises above the tension. “You can’t make these men fight to the death.”

“Says who?”

Death is what I need right now.

Violence.

I pull out my gun and point it at the men. “Either one of you dies, or both of you do. Now, fight.”

The men look at each other in panic but they know there’s no escape. They start again with more on the line, desperation fueling their blows. The one on the floor scrambles for something sharp—a broken shard from a champagne flute—and drives it into Mustache’s neck.

A strangled cry escapes before he collapses.

Silence hangs thick in the air as everyone watches Mustache bleed out. The surviving man stares at me in horror, clearly terrified of what just happened and of me, before he doubles over and vomits on some unsuspecting woman’s high heels.

I laugh, loud enough for everyone to hear, then turn to my guards. “Clean up this mess.”

After the party, I sit alone in the dark with another drink. The only light comes from Seattle’s skyline bleeding through the windows. My suit jacket lies crumpled on the couch; my tie drapes over an empty chair.

That fight was entertaining but didn’t fill the ache inside me or ease my frustration enough. Didn’t even come close.

I think only Aurelia can stop this ache.

The glass is halfway to my lips when I hear footsteps behind me. Mother’s movements are cautious, but I ignore her until she speaks.

“That was some party,” she says.

I only grunt a response.

“I didn’t realize you were so much like your father.”

Her words hit like a fist to the gut, and something snaps inside me. I fly out of my seat and grab her arm roughly, making her cower back.

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