Bloody hell, John's mind screamed, a cold sweat breaking out on his
brow. Those three bastards saw me blundering and didn't say a word!
The other three Capos shuffled awkwardly behind him, their eyes darting
anywhere but at their furious boss or the mortified young woman beside him.
They'd all seen it happening in slow motion, but not one had dared to interrupt
John's spectacularly ill-timed joke.
Little did they expect that the man among them with usually the keenest
eye would make such a catastrophic blunder on this of all nights.
From the side, Julian observed the scene, a deep, mocking glint
flickering beneath his placid expression.
See? he thought bitterly. Even they see it. To the outside world, she and
I are the perfect match. How many more voices can you possibly silence, Father?
Five minutes later, they were settled in the neighbouring private room.
The lighting here was crisp and soft, a world away from the hazy, smoke-filled
den next door. Though the air was still thick with tension, it was far
preferable.
Silas sat centrally with Elara beside him, his arm draped possessively
along the back of the sofa behind her. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble as
he addressed the four Capos. "This is my wife, Elara Thorne. Commit that
to memory. Should this… misidentification happen again, you won't have any use
for those eyes of yours."
John ran a hand over his shaven head, a nervous chuckle escaping him.
"Hah, Boss, my sincerest apologies. My eyesight's failing me these days,
and I left my reading glasses behind. I'm as blind as a bat. Having offended
Mrs. Thorne, I'll drink three cups as my punishment and offer my sincerest
apologies."
He grabbed the bottle of premium whisky from the table and poured three
generous glasses. Lifting one, he addressed Elara directly, his tone shifting
to one of genuine, if rough, respect.
"Mrs. Thorne, I'm John. I've been under the boss's wing for over a
decade. This whole entertainment district falls under my… purview." He
caught Silas's slight warning glance and cleared his throat. "Apologies
for any offence tonight."
With that, he tipped back each glass in quick succession, his expression
never changing. Elara watched, intrigued. He was every bit the streetwise
gangster—unabashed and brutally straightforward.
A faint, curious smile played on her lips. 'Purview.' What a interesting
euphemism. Do men like him still collect protection money in this day and age?
Silas, exasperated, rubbed his temples. "Right. Don't you dare
leave your glasses behind next time."
John instantly relaxed, his grin returning. He grabbed a packet of
cigarettes, pulled one out, and offered it to Silas like a peace offering.
"I was just so excited to see you, Boss. I couldn't see straight. Haven't
laid eyes on you since before the New Year—a whole month! Didn't you say you'd
been deployed to the Middle East? I was worried sick—"
He abruptly clamped his mouth shut. Silas's icy gaze fixed on him,
showing no intention of accepting the cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye,
John caught sight of the delicate, almost translucent young mistress and
finally understood. He chuckled softly, tucked the cigarette behind his ear,
and sank back into the sofa.
Only then did Silas turn his attention to the other three. "All of
you, put out your cigarettes. From now on, only alcohol is permitted in her
presence."
The four leaders, who had just been about to light up, promptly removed
the cigarettes from their lips and discarded them.
Blimey, they all thought in unison. The boss finds a young wife and it
turns him into a different man. He used to be the heaviest smoker of them all.
If they couldn't see how much Silas treasured this girl now, they'd have wasted
all their years on the streets.
They exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them, then
raised their glasses to Elara.
"Mrs. Thorne," one of them, a man with a scar tracing his
jawline, began. "We are the four Capos. Thanks to the boss's trust, we
manage his operations in the city. Should you ever need anything, just say the
word."
Their words held no flattery, merely stating facts. Her eyes flickered
over the intricate tattoos inked on their arms and necks, each marking their
affiliation and rank. Her eye twitched. Truly a den of thugs. Yet, there was a
different air about them—a quiet gravitas earned through years of power and
conflict, their eyes holding a hidden sharpness that spoke of experience.
She offered a polite smile and reached for her glass of juice to return
the toast. But before she could lift it, Silas's hand was already there,
raising his own glass of amber liquid towards the men.
"She can't drink," he stated, his voice leaving no room for
argument. "So I'll drink for her."
He tilted his head back, his throat working as he downed the entire
contents in one smooth, practiced motion.
"Ha! Mr. Thorne can still hold his liquor!" John boomed, his
eyes crinkling. "Since Mrs. Thorne can't drink, Boss, you'll have to keep
us four company with a few more cups tonight!"
Silas idly twirled his empty glass between his long fingers. His gaze,
sharp and calculating, then shifted to Julian, who was seated a careful
distance from Elara. "Julian," he said, his deep voice cutting
through the camaraderie. "These four Capos are your elders. Offer them a
proper toast. There remains much for you to learn from them."
The command was clear, an order disguised as paternal advice.
Julian's eyes lowered briefly before he rose. His handsome face was
adorned with a modest, practiced smile as he lifted his glass. "To my four
uncles, my father's most loyal and capable right hands. I offer you this toast.
Henceforth, I shall strive to learn from you with humility. I humbly request
your guidance."
The four men knew why the boss had brought his son along tonight. They'd
heard about the recent… tensions.
They seldom saw the boss's son. The boy was handsome, sure, but young
and untested. He lacked the raw, fiery ambition Silas had possessed at his age,
and none of the commanding presence that made men follow without question.
The four factions—overseeing the Winslow family's wharf operations,
private security, entertainment ventures, and munitions trade—were the
foundation laid by generations of Thorne and Winslow power. After the major
upheavals in Oakhaven, it was Silas and his aunt, Ingrid, who had led the
transformation, pulling them into the light of legitimate business while
keeping a firm grip on the shadows.
In their eyes, they followed Silas out of earned respect, not bloodline.
They recognised only ability. If Julian possessed the skill to make them look
at him with newfound respect, they would defer. But if he lacked the goods?
They wouldn't give him the time of day.
Before, with the boss silent on the matter, they'd shown the boy no
particular deference. Now that the boss had given a direct order, they obliged.
They drank the wine Julian offered, then poured him several more cups, the
atmosphere in the room shifting to a more formal, instructed warmth.
Silas was toasted in turn, the conversation soon turning to branch
affairs and logistics that Elara found incomprehensible. She sipped her orange
juice, feeling like a spectator at a play where she didn't know the lines.
Fortunately, the drinking session was curtailed sooner than expected. As
they prepared to leave, Silas placed a firm hand on John's shoulder, his tone
solemn. "For the time being, Julian will shadow you at the docks. See to
it he learns the operation properly. Every part of it."
The command startled John. The wharf under his jurisdiction was the
heart of their most sensitive, and legally grey, operations...
Silas's gaze was deep and knowing, his grip tightening almost
imperceptibly. "It's fine," he said, his voice low enough for only
John to hear. He knew Julian would discover the truth about Steven Cohen's
presence there sooner or later. It was time.
Julian stood behind them, a faint glint of excitement in his dark eyes.
Tonight's display—the public acknowledgment, the assignment—made him feel,
perhaps foolishly, that his father's harshness was merely a crucible. A test to
hasten his growth. It wasn't indifference after all.
The motorcade was waiting. Ben held the car door open, and the three of
them climbed into the plush interior of the Maybach. The cloying,
sweet-and-spicy scent of expensive whisky filled the car.
Elara felt a wave of immediate nausea wash over her. She quickly rolled
down her window, gulping in the cool night air.
"Feeling unwell?" Silas asked, his voice slightly slurred from
the drink. He leaned closer, his concern evident.
As he drew near, the smell of alcohol intensified. Elara covered her
mouth and raised a hand to block his advance, her nose wrinkling in reproach.
"You reek of booze. Don't come so close."
Silas massaged his throbbing temples and chuckled softly. "Right.
My apologies." He remembered her condition—the morning sickness that
wasn't confined to mornings. He moved dutifully toward the opposite window,
rolling it down to create a cross-breeze.
After a moment, he fetched a bottle of chilled water from the
mini-fridge, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to her. His voice was a low,
intimate murmur that seemed to caress the air between them. "Here, baby.
sip this slowly. It'll help."
That affectionate "baby," spoken so naturally in front of an
audience, made Elara's heart stutter. A blush crept up her neck. She took the
bottle without a word, turning to look out the window as she drank.
Seeing her adorable, flustered expression, Silas's handsome face, bathed
in the mottled light of passing street-lamps, broke into a mesmerising, private
smile.
In the driver's seat, Ben focused intently on the road, pretending to be
deaf.
But in the passenger seat, Julian's drunken eyes snapped open. He
watched the entire tender exchange through the rearview mirror. The yellow glow
of the streetlights streamed into the car, illuminating Elara's fair, luminous
face. Every corner of her eyes and brows was tinged with a bashful, feminine
charm he had never seen before—a charm that was not, and had never been, meant
for him.
A corrosive thought, fed by jealousy and expensive whisky, began to
churn in the dark depths of his mind.
Why? She claimed to love me. So how can she behave like that with him?
His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening where they rested on his knee.
Is that the key? Is that the world of difference?
That she shares his bed and not mine?
The thought stirred something dark and desperate within him. A
dangerous, possessive current surged beneath his shadowed gaze.
If I were the one to possess her… would she then look at me like that?
Would her heart change?