Three days later. The Obsidian, Empire City's most exclusive private club.
Alex strode down the gold-leafed corridor. He wore a tailored black suit that stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. He made absolutely no effort to conceal the jagged, red scar slashing across his face. Among the polished, tuxedo-clad billionaires and politicians, he looked like a feral wolf that had wandered into a dog show.
The waiters pressed themselves against the walls, lowering their eyes as he passed.
Two massive bodyguards pushed open a set of heavy, carved mahogany doors. Alex stepped into the private VIP room. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of expensive Cuban cigars and cloying designer perfume.
Dempsey 'Six' Rocha, the head of the city's most violent crime syndicate, sat at the head of the table. He rolled a cigar between his thick fingers, his reptilian eyes assessing Alex with lethal calculation.
Sitting next to Dempsey was Cora Livingston-Armour, a top-tier socialite. She wore a haute couture gown, her posture stiff and arrogant.
Alex's instincts flared. This wasn't a business meeting. This was a test. Dempsey was trying to chain his best attack dog to the syndicate with a marriage leash.
Alex walked over to the seating area. He didn't wait for Dempsey to offer him a seat. He grabbed a chair, dragged it back with a loud screech against the floor, and dropped into it. He spread his legs wide, his posture radiating pure, street-level arrogance.
Cora's perfectly sculpted eyebrows twitched. Her eyes darted to the horrific scar on his face, then down to his crude posture. A flash of intense disgust crossed her features.
Dempsey smiled, a cold, empty expression. He introduced Cora, heavily implying that her family's banking connections could provide excellent money-laundering channels for the syndicate. He suggested Alex should "get to know her."
Alex leaned back against the chair. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cheap, generic cigarettes. He pulled one out with his teeth.
He completely ignored the solid gold lighter sitting on the table in front of him. Instead, he pulled out a scratched, oil-stained metal Zippo. He flicked it open with a loud clack and lit the cigarette, blowing a thick cloud of acrid smoke directly across the table.
The smell of cheap, burning tobacco instantly overpowered Cora's expensive perfume. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her purse, pressed it against her nose, and let out two exaggerated, delicate coughs.
Alex watched her pathetic, fragile display. For a split second, his mind flashed to Ashlyn-shivering in the freezing rain, soaked to the bone, yet staring at him with stubborn, terrified eyes. His chest tightened. He pushed the thought away violently.
Desperate to complete her family's assignment, Cora forced a tight smile. She tried to engage Alex, bringing up the topic of high-yield art investments.
Alex cut her off. He lifted his heavy tactical boot-a stark, aggressive piece of footwear that entirely broke the dress code of the elite establishment-and slammed it down onto the center of the priceless, antique mahogany coffee table.
The wood groaned under the weight. Cora gasped, her body jerking backward against her chair.
Alex tapped his cigarette. The gray ash fell directly onto the million-dollar Persian rug.
"Art?" Alex sneered, using the thick, guttural slang of the slums. "It's just overpriced paper rich pricks use to wash their dirty money."
He let his eyes drag slowly up and down Cora's body, his gaze deliberately lewd and insulting. "You want to talk business with me, princess? The only business I do with women like you happens on your back."
Cora had been pampered her entire life. She had never been spoken to like a whore. Her pale face instantly flushed a violent, blotchy red. Tears of pure humiliation welled up in her eyes.
She shot up from her chair, grabbing her Birkin bag. She glared at Dempsey. "How dare you set me up with this... this unevolved animal!"
She spun around, her high heels clicking furiously against the floor, and stormed out. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind her.
The room fell dead silent.
Dempsey slammed his cigar into the ashtray. "Are you out of your fucking mind, Alex? You just blew a billion-dollar connection."
Alex pulled his boot off the table. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He stared Dempsey dead in the eyes, his gaze feral and unblinking.
"I'm a street dog, Six," Alex growled, a cold smile twisting his scarred face. "I don't play house with porcelain dolls. I like my women cheap, obedient, and bought with cash."
He let the silence hang for a second. "I don't do marriage. I don't do leashes. If you don't like how I operate, find another trigger man."
Dempsey stared at him. He searched Alex's ruined face for any sign of deception, any hint of a deeper agenda. All he saw was the raw, violent independence of a thug.
Slowly, Dempsey threw his head back and laughed. He reached over and slapped Alex hard on the shoulder.
"I love that crazy bastard energy," Dempsey chuckled. The lethal tension in the room evaporated. The test was passed.
Alex stood up. He adjusted his suit jacket, gave a curt nod, and turned toward the door.
His hand had just wrapped around the brass doorknob when his burner phone-tucked into his inner breast pocket-vibrated violently.
It was the emergency line.
Alex's stomach dropped. He pulled the phone out. The caller ID flashed the name of Diana's lead physician.
He answered the call, his knuckles turning white around the plastic.
