Fools. All of them.
I stood in the office above the yard, watching the trucks idle like sleeping beasts. Two semis. One full of girls. One full of product. Chicago was waiting. My empire was waiting.
And my i***t nephew was drinking.
Liam slouched in the corner, bottle in hand, eyes dull. He looked like a boy who’d lost his toy—not the heir to a legacy built on blood and silence.
“You let her go,” I said, voice low but sharp. “The girl. Kat.”
He didn’t answer. Just took another drink.
I stepped forward, slow. “She was leverage. She was the key. And you let her slip through your fingers like a drunk child chasing ghosts.”
“She ran,” he muttered.
I laughed. Cold. “She ran because you let her. Because you were weak.”
I grabbed the bottle from his hand and smashed it against the wall.
