Page 46 of Royal Bargain
Because the worst part isn’t that Aleksey was here.
It’s that for one brief second—I almost wanted to hear him out.
The band quiets, the lights shift, and all eyes turn toward the raised stage near the center of the ballroom. Burns climbs the steps like he owns the place—hell, maybe he will soon—and takes his place at the mic, beaming like the golden boy Thornville’s been waiting for.
He opens with pleasantries, thanks the donors, cracks a joke that gets polite laughter.
Then his voice lowers. Steadies.
“And now, the part of the evening where I tell you why I’m really running,” Burns says, gaze sweeping the room. “Because this city is rotting. Not at the surface, no. Our streets are clean, our businesses are thriving—but underneath? The foundation is cracking.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“For too long, we’ve tolerated criminal enterprises operating in our neighborhoods. They leech resources. They recruit our children. They twist the law to serve their own ends. Well—” He leans in slightly. “No more.”
My stomach goes tight.
“I intend to see every last one of these syndicates dismantled. Piece by piece. Group by group. Until there’s no one left to intimidate our people or exploit their pain.”
A few scattered claps turn into real applause. Loud. Growing. The kind of response he wanted.
I don’t clap.
Because my blood’s gone cold.
Every last one?
Burns steps down, flashing his too-perfect smile, shaking hands again as he returns to the floor. I’m still frozen in place when he finds me near the bar, raising a glass in triumph.
“Hell of a speech, right?” he says, grinning like we’re still on the same team.
I stare at him. “You said you wanted to clean up corruption. But that sounded like you’re planning to go scorched earth.”
Burns’s smile softens. “Relax. That wasn’t about you.” He leans in, dropping his voice. “I meant the Russians. The Polish gangs. The cartel that’s trying to creep in from Westbridge.”
“But the way you said it?—”
“I had to say it that way.” His tone is calm, confident, like he’s explaining something to a jittery intern. “You can’t win public favor by saying some crime is okay. I needed to draw a line—rally support. That line just happens to be… flexible.”
My jaw tightens. “So the Brannagans are on the right side of that line?”
“For now? Absolutely.”
He claps me on the shoulder, genial as ever, like we didn’t just have a conversation that sounded like a warning wrapped in reassurance.
“Trust me, Liam. I know who the real threats are. And it’s not your family.”
Then he turns away to charm the next crowd, leaving me standing there, heart pounding and mind racing.
Because “for now” doesn’t sound like a promise.
It sounds like a timer.
By the time the gala winds down, I keep waiting for something to go sideways. But it doesn’t. No disasters. No drama. Just a bunch of champagne toasts, the band playing their last song, and people heading out in waves.
Outside, the air’s cool. Burns walks beside me, practically buzzing.
His phone buzzes too. He ignores it.
