Damian Wolfe
The city didn't stop for blood.
It didn't flinch for betrayal, didn't pause for power plays or bruised egos. It kept spinning, grinding bones into dust beneath polished shoes and champagne smiles.
And neither did I.
Aria had been quiet for a week. No messages. No moves. Not even a whisper through my network. Smart. She knew the fire she'd started in that warehouse hadn't burned out, it had just gone underground.
But business didn't wait for ghosts. Especially not mine.
I adjusted the cufflinks on my shirt, the Wolfe crest gleaming under the morning light filtering through the glass. The boardroom buzzed behind the double doors, waiting for me to walk in and remind them who ran this empire. Sixty years of legacy—and all of it rested on my name now.
Wolfe Enterprise was gearing up for its 60th anniversary gala. The vultures were circling, the partners sniffing for weakness, and the press? They'd kill for a quote—just one slip, one crack in the mask.
There wouldn't be one.
I stepped into the boardroom. Power shifted.
Jasper sat two seats down—flawless as always, tie straight, expression unreadable. Loyal assistant. Trusted consigliere.
Snake.
He looked up when I entered, eyes sharp, a smile already forming on his lips.
"Morning, sir," he said, tapping something into his tablet. "I've finalized the vendors for the gala. Security, entertainment, catering, all greenlit. We'll have the guest list ready by this afternoon."
Efficient. Unshaken. Not even a flicker of doubt.
Which told me one thing.
He didn't know what happened in the warehouse.
Aria still hadn't told him.
Either he wasn't as close to her as I thought, or he was more distracted than I'd assumed.
Interesting.
I slid into my seat at the head of the table, offering Jasper a curt nod. "Good. Keep me updated on the investor confirmations. I want numbers, not promises."
"Of course."
The meeting rolled on—stock reports, international expansions, potential mergers. But behind every spreadsheet, every projection, I was watching Jasper. Measuring his silences. Weighing the way he didn't mention Aria. Not once.
When the boardroom finally emptied, I didn't speak. Just waited, sipping espresso by the window.
Jasper lingered, adjusting the files in his arms.
"You've been quiet lately," I said, casually. "Everything good on your end?"
His smile flickered, just for a second. "Of course. Just the usual chaos, prepping for the anniversary."
No mention of Aria. No concern. No slip.
He was good.
But I was better.
---
Later, in the privacy of my penthouse, I stood by the bar as Bishop materialized from the shadows, silent as sin.
"He doesn't know," I said, pouring a finger of scotch. "Not about the warehouse. Not about the meeting."
Bishop nodded once. "Then he's hiding something else."
I took a sip, the burn welcome.
"Find out what," I said. "Anything on Everett yet?"
Bishop didn't flinch. "Still on it."
I set the glass down with a soft clink.
The gala would be a spectacle.
But so would the reckoning.
---
The gala wasn't just a celebration. It was a weapon.
Sixty years of Wolfe Enterprise—an empire built on acquisitions, blood, and branding. Every powerful name in the city would be there. Every camera, every whisper, every eye.
Which made it the perfect place to remind them all exactly who I was.
I stood inside the main event space—a high-rise ballroom overlooking the skyline, all glass and opulence and the kind of lighting that made diamonds glitter harder and secrets harder to see. The decorators circled like stylists prepping a corpse for a funeral. Everything had to be perfect. Every flower. Every thread.
Control was in the details.
Jasper moved beside me, rattling off supplier confirmations and media coverage stats like the good little snake he was. His voice was smooth, professional, too smooth.
I didn't look at him. Just kept my eyes on the empty stage being assembled in the center of the room. The centerpiece. The spotlight. A throne made of crystal and shadow where I'd stand and command the room like a king addressing his court.
"Any word from the press list?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. The Times, Empire Weekly, GQ, Business Tech, and Vanity Fair are all confirmed."
I finally turned my head, caught the flicker of tension in Jasper's jaw. He covered it well, but I saw it.
Something was still off.
"Let me know if any of the seating arrangements change," I said, tone sharp. "I don't want any unexpected overlaps. Especially with Aria."
He blinked. Recovered. "Understood."
I dismissed him with a nod, watching as he disappeared into the noise and movement. He had secrets. I'd let him think he was safe until it served me to prove otherwise.
---
Later that night, I reviewed the guest list myself in the solitude of my study. Names. Alliances. Enemies in designer suits. Allies with knives behind their backs. Everyone who mattered would be in that room.
I picked up the phone on the desk and called Bishop "Send invitations to the Syndicate, I just need three representativs in attendance. Make it discreet." I said, voice low.
"Understood." Bishop replied and hung up.
Of course. They never missed a feeding.
Even her.
She hadn't RSVP'd.
But Aria Vale was no fool. She knew this wasn't just an event.
It was a declaration.
And if she showed up, it wouldn't just be to make a scene. It would be to make a move.
I leaned back, fingers steepled, the city humming beneath my feet.
Let her come.
Let them all come.
I'd built this empire with blood and precision and I'd burn it brighter than ever before, just to blind the ones who thought they could tear it down.