Page 93 of Goldflame

None suspect they’re being manipulated.

Ramos—DeSean’s primary accountant—leans forward. “Smith would kill me if he knew I was here.”

“Oh?” Aurelia’s eyebrow arches. “Is he that possessive of his employees?”

“Paranoid is more like it.” Ramos takes a long drink of Patrón, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “Especially since the feds started sniffing around his Vegas hotel. The man hasn’t slept in his own bed for weeks. Keeps moving between safe houses.”

Valuable information. DeSean’s financial mistakes have finally caught federal attention. This simplifies our approach.

Aurelia’s fingers brush Ramos’s wrist as she places her cards down. “That must make your job difficult, always chasing him around.”

“Tell me about it. Next Tuesday I’m stuck flying to his Lake Washington property just so he can sign some documents before disappearing again.”

Lake Washington. Tuesday. Each detail slots neatly into place in my mental framework. DeSean Smith keeps a secured compound on the eastern shore of the lake—fourteen acres, private dock, minimal staff. The perfect location for an elimination that won’t be discovered immediately.

“Your turn, sweetheart,” another man—one of DeSean’s security consultants—interrupts, his gaze lingering on Aurelia’s cleavage.

My jaw tightens reflexively. The way these men look at her—as if she’s an object for consumption rather than the extraordinary, resilient woman she is—stirs something primitive in me.

It’s… unusual.

I’ve always prided myself on emotional discipline. Even during my years with Aurelia, when we were “together” yet separate, I maintained the necessary distance. The calculated detachment required for our mutual survival.

But death and resurrection have altered something. The barriers I erected so meticulously are deteriorating at an alarming rate, particularly where she’s concerned.

“I believe I’ve lost again.” Aurelia’s practiced sigh draws me back to the monitors. “Too bad.”

The men’s eager expressions as she reaches for the buttons of her silk blouse send a surge of possessive rage through my system. I intellectually understand this is strategic—her participation in this game provides critical intelligence.

Yet the sight of Ramos’s hand casually brushing her shoulder as she removes her blouse provokes an irrational response I struggle to suppress.

I press my fingertips together, focusing on the pressure points. Three deep breaths. Clarity returns.

Aurelia sets her blouse aside, sitting now in just a black lace bra and her jeans. The hungry stares from the men intensify. Ramos adjusts his position, leaning closer.

“Perhaps next week after my Lake Washington visit, I could take you to dinner,” he says. “Smith has this incredible wine collection. He’d never notice if one went missing.”

Aurelia’s smile remains fixed as her fingers brush the emerald necklace at her throat—my gift, my claim. “I’m not sure Lorenzo would approve.”

“Lorenzo doesn’t need to know everything.” His hand is now resting on the back of Aurelia’s chair, fingers dangerously close to her bare skin.

Enough.

I lean forward, pressing the intercom button. “Gentlemen,” I announce, my voice echoing through the basement room. “I’m afraid I must cut this evening short. Unforeseen circumstances require immediate attention.”

Heads swivel and bodies tense. Security concerns are hardwired into Consortium associates. None recognize my voice, of course. Adrian Harrow remains dead to the world.

“What the fuck?” Ramos stands, hand moving instinctively toward his concealed weapon.

“Your participation is appreciated,” I say. “You’ll find your initial investments returned threefold as compensation for the inconvenience.” My tone leaves no room for negotiation. “Please exit through the north corridor. Lorenzo’s men will escort you.”

I watch through the monitors as confusion gives way to reluctant compliance. Two of Lorenzo’s security personnel appear at the door. It’s a timely reminder for our guests that we control this environment.

Aurelia remains seated, arms crossed over her blackbra, her expression a complex mixture of irritation and relief. As the last man vacates the room, she glares directly into the nearest camera.

“What the hell was that?”

“Stay there,” I command, already rising from my desk.

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