Page 41 of Goldflame

Meetings. That was something I managed to avoid when Lucian and Adrian were alive. Yeah, my bastard father would call me into the office sometimes to either beat me or threaten something, butbusinessmeetings? Where Inferno Consortium members gather and talk about boring shit?

Fuck no. Adrian was always more suited for that than me.

I glance around the large conference table. When Mom insisted I had to do this, I tried to have it at the penthouse so I wouldn’t have to leave and be too far away fromher.I argued with Mom that our living room is large enough for the main members to come over and talk about whatever stupid shit we have to go over. Mom looked like she wanted to faint.

“The living room?” she said, like no one in the world had ever thought of that. “No. You must set an example. Your father maintained a certain image and proved hewas a businessman as much as he was a leader. You must do the same. There are a few warehouses for this sort of thing with decent facilities. I’ll give you a list.”

So here I am, in some warehouse near the docks. Surprisingly, it’s not run down. Someone fixed it up with expensive tile, couches, actual fucking plants in the corner like we’re at a Hilton conference room. And the twenty or so people here, representing their families tonight, are all in luxury business attire. Even me.

My eyes snag on an empty seat—who was supposed to be here, yet decided to miss my first-ever meeting as the new leader?

Feels like a slap in the face, but I guess I can deal with it later.

I stifle a yawn as Francis DeMarco drones on about some fentanyl shipment that got stuck at the Mexican border into Arizona. He wants to figure out logistics for trying to get it through on a boat into the Seattle ports.

“I know you have a fleet,” Francis, looking like the type of prick who’d watch while someone assaulted kittens, says to the Castellano member.

The Castellano woman—whose name I’m blanking on—purses her red lips and shrugs. “Our fleet is busy with our own business. If we give you a boat, how will you make it worth our while?”

Francis tries to offer money after he secures his shipment and moves the product, but she doesn’t seem to need that.

While they go back and forth in negotiation, I know I should be paying more attention or help them come tosome agreement. I never sat in on these meetings, but I can imagine my father simply cutting in to offer a final solution. And whether they liked it or not, no one would protest.

That’s the kind of feared and respected man he was. I can admire that, as much as I hated him for everything else.

Me? I can’t think of a fucking solution. I’m still learning the logistics, the business, the goddamnnames. Mom knows everything, but I couldn’t invite her here tonight to help or I’d look weak.

Hell, I think I am weak.

I should care. I should be calculating losses, planning moves that increase cash flow and strengthen the Consortium, show these vultures I’m every bit the leader my father was.

But my mind is blank.

Well, not completely.

All I can think about is that fucking door. Adrian’s door.

Just… opening on its own last week before the Harvest of Wealth festival.

The security footage plays on a loop in my mind: empty hallway, sleeping Aurelia, and that door—that goddamn door just swinging open like someone invisible pushed it. No one entered the corridor. No one tinkered with the locks. It just… released.

My mother insists it was a mechanical failure. “These electronic locks are unreliable,” she said, kissing my forehead like I was still a child. “Don’t worry yourself over nothing. This is why we have guards.”

Valentine also agreed. Too quickly. “I’ll have new locks installed,” he promised. “Better ones. Military grade. It was just a system failure.”

But why that door? Why Aurelia’s door? Why that night?

“It’s two million in product,” Francis nearly yells at the Castellano woman. “If your boat gets damaged, which itwon’t, I can buy you a new one. But I need my shipment first.”

I nod like I’m listening. Their negotiation doesn’t seem to be going well, but it’s a distant roar in my ears.

That door.

Just a system failure. That’s the rational explanation because I don’t believe in ghosts. Don’t believe Adrian somehow reached beyond the grave to set her free, but…

I’ve been having nightmares about it. In my dreams, it’s Adrian who opens it. Adrian’s ghost, face still splattered with his own blood, eyes vacant as he reaches for the handle.

“Your turn to suffer,”he whispers, fingers wrapping around my throat.“How could you trap her? That’s not what either of us wanted. Remember? You used to want to keep her safe.”