9-CIARAN

Anger and disappointment. That about sums up my father's emotions toward me.

He sits across from me, behind the massive oak desk in his office, his posture rigid, his fingers curled around a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid. His dark eyes—identical to mine—are narrowed in my direction, scrutinizing me like I'm a fucking disappointment.

I just told him the news. Valente and Moreau are partnering for the Consortium project. And now, I'm waiting for the explosion, for him to snap and tell me this isn't happening, that I've fucked up beyond repair.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he hisses, his deep voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

I don't move. I don't blink. I know better than to run my mouth when he's like this.

His fury mounts, his lips curling in disdain. "You damn well know our history with the Moreaus, and yet you went ahead and did something that'll make me lose my fucking head in shame. The Consortium name wasn't necessary for this, not when it comes to working with them."

He exhales sharply, rubbing his temple, then tosses back the rest of his drink in one go. The glass clinks when he slams it onto the desk. The room smells of whiskey and burning resentment.

I inhale through my nose, controlled. "I had two reasons for accepting the deal." My voice is calm, calculated. "The Consortium label was one of them. The other—" My jaw tightens. "The accident."

His head snaps up, attention fixed on me now. His eyes darken. "Your brother's accident?"

I nod. "The rumors have been flying for years. And if there's even a fucking chance that the Moreaus had a hand in it, I want to be close enough to find out."

My father sits back, fingers laced together as he stares at me, deep in thought. I push forward. "If they had something to do with it, I will make them pay. I don't give a damn if it takes months, years—I'll burn everything they have to the fucking ground."

His nostrils flare. He exhales, tapping a finger against the desk. "And how do you intend to find out? You think working side by side with the Moreau girl will make it easier?"

"She's sharp," he mutters, more to himself than to me. "Not like her brother."

I smirk. "I'll handle her."

He raises a brow. "And how the hell did you get her to agree to work with you?"

Good question.

"The Consortium, most likely," I admit. "Or maybe she has her own motives."

His gaze sharpens. "Stay on your guard."

I nod once. "I know."

Another long pause. Then, he sighs and waves a dismissive hand. "Get out."

I don't argue. I turn on my heel and stride out of the office, the sound of my footsteps echoing down the long, dimly lit hallway.

Two years, three months. That's how long it's been since my brother died.

They called it an accident, a tragic car crash. But I don't buy that bullshit.

There are pieces of evidence. Inconsistencies in the reports. Witness statements that don't add up. It wasn't just a freak accident. Someone wanted him dead.

And I'll find out who.

I haven't fucking slept properly since he died. We weren't the closest, not in the way brothers should be, but we had each other's backs. I admired him. Hated him, too. But I would've never wanted him dead.

And now, I'm stuck in a business deal with a Moreau.

Interesting how the world works.

I walk down the curved stairway, my footsteps echoing against the marble floors. At the bottom, Frances is already waiting, his usual warm smile in place.

"Frances," I say, eyeing the old man. "You're taking your meds, right?"

His wrinkles deepen as he grins. "Of course, young master."

I nod. "Good."

He tells me dinner is ready, but I place a firm hand on his shoulder, my voice lighter than usual. "Not tonight. I'm heading out."

Frances bows his head slightly. "As you wish. Take care."

I step outside into the crisp night air, making my way to my car—a sleek black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera. The engine purrs to life, and I take off, the open roof letting the wind lash against my face and hair. It's sharp, biting, and fucking perfect. The city lights blur as I glide through the streets, my grip tight on the wheel.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull up outside Red Haven, a high-end bar where business and pleasure mix like gasoline and fire. Inside, the place is dimly lit, the air thick with cigar smoke and quiet power plays.

I spot him easily—Lucas Hale, a man who knows the underground dealings better than anyone. He's nursing a whiskey at a corner booth, his sharp gaze meeting mine as I slide into the seat across from him.

"Valente," he greets, smirking. "You don't call unless you need something."

I smirk back, signaling for a drink. "Cut the shit, Hale. You looked into that project?"

He leans forward, lowering his voice. "Yeah. It's risky, but lucrative. The supply chain's fucked, but if you move fast, you could monopolize it before anyone else catches on."

I take a slow sip of my whiskey, considering. "And the competitors?"

"Handled," he says smoothly. "For now."

I nod. "Send me the details. I'll have my team go through them."

The conversation shifts to other business, a few dry jokes, a few shared enemies. After about an hour, I finish my drink and stand, stretching my neck before rolling my shoulders. The bar is still packed, filled with bodies pressed together, low murmurs blending with the thump of bass-heavy music.

A woman slides up beside me, pressing her body against mine like she fucking owns the right. Blonde, red dress, fake confidence. Her fingers trail over my forearm, her lips parting in a practiced pout.

"Leaving so soon?" she purrs, voice laced with invitation.

Boredom flickers in my chest. Same routine. Same meaningless bullshit. But I'm restless, and the easiest way to kill restlessness is indulging it.

So I do.

I grab her by the waist and pull her flush against me, tilting her chin up before crushing my lips against hers. It's rough, mechanical, devoid of anything real. Her fingers dig into my shirt, a soft moan leaving her lips.

Then it fucking happens.

Isla.

Her face flashes through my mind, searing through my thoughts like a goddamn brand. Those sharp eyes, that defiant tilt of her chin, the way she looks at me like she's not afraid to go to war.

I tear away from the woman, cursing under my breath.

"What—?" she starts, dazed.

"Leave," I snap, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. She huffs, muttering something under her breath before storming off, heels clicking against the floor.

I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair.

Fuck.

I hate this. Hate that she's under my skin, hate that even here, in the middle of a distraction, she's the one haunting me. Isla Moreau is a fucking problem.

Lucas snickers, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he watches me run a hand through my hair, irritation burning beneath my skin.

"Not very gentlemanly of you to scare that chick away," he muses, amusement lacing his tone.

I deadpan, lifting his drink from the table and taking a slow sip. "I was never a gentleman to begin with."

He chuckles but doesn't argue. A moment later, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen, exhales, then stands, answering with a clipped, "Yeah?" I don't pay much attention as he murmurs into the phone, but when he hangs up, he claps me on the shoulder.

"Got something to take care of. Try not to terrify any more women while I'm gone."

I shoot him a bored look, and he smirks before heading out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Bad fucking idea.

I flag the bartender and order another martini, then another. The alcohol doesn't do shit except make my thoughts louder, more unbearable.

Isla Moreau is my personal form of torment. A thorn buried so deep under my skin I can't rip it out no matter how much I fucking try. She thinks she's untouchable, some queen ruling over everything in her palm. That smug confidence, that razor-sharp tongue—she thrives on control, and that's exactly what I want to shatter.

I toss back another drink, jaw clenching.

But it's not just that.

Isla Moreau is connected to my brother's death.

The Moreaus were always a thorn in our side, but after he died, that thorn turned into a fucking blade. I haven't looked at them the same since. I haven't looked at her the same.

And yet… she agreed to work with me.

That's the part I can't fucking crack. Isla loathes me—every look, every word dripping with disdain. She should have told Orlando to shove his joint venture up his ass. But she didn't.

Why?

Maybe she sees this as a challenge. Maybe she wants to prove she can trample me under her heel, make me eat my own words.

I scoff, finishing my drink.

Dream the fuck on, Isla.