Seducing My Husband's Brother

Fate in a Shaker

RYAN

•••••••

I pick the card up again, letting it rest between my fingers like it's something delicate, something you're not supposed to touch but can’t help inspecting.

'Elysium' is printed across the top in gold foil, the letters sharp, elegant, gleaming under the office light. Beneath it, in smaller script, it reads, 'An Exclusive Evening of Indulgence and Prestige.'

The scent of the paper is faint but rich—vanilla and leather. I turn it over, flipping it between my hands. Marcus DeLuca's name is there in embossed silver, his signature curling across the bottom like a warning.

I set the card down, staring at it, knowing exactly what it represents. A night of luxury, yes, but a luxury built on power and desire.

Heaving, I flick the card further across the table. This is simply a jab, an insult.

"He invites you year in, year out," Kylian's voice filters through from across the table. "Why don't you attend? Just this once."

An irrepressible scoff breaks through my lips. "Why don't we wait until Regan is dead and peacefully rested?"

He heaves, leaning a little back into his seat. "You are the Don."

"I am the Don," I echo after him.

His ashy eyes meet mine, staring straight in a no-nonsense manner. "People are talking."

"People will always talk," I correct.

Sighing, he shifts a little before continuing. "That marriage between Marcus and Caterina doubled the DeLuca strength."

My brows pull together. "Why are we talking about a forty-year-old conjugal bliss?"

He's unresponsive.

"That was like when Regan was Don."

"It holds impact still," he stresses, frustration lines appearing on his forehead in tiny, edged folds.

Leaning closer, I interlink my fingers on the table, tapping my leg repeatedly on the wooden floor. "And you want me to break Valente rules just to stop the whispers of people beneath me?"

"You don't have to indulge," his response is quick. "Just make an appearance, observe, leave a statement, then exit."

My eyes remain on his for a while before I lean away, pressing my back to the cushion. "They only send the invite to undermine us."

"I am aware," he breathes. "Honour it to destroy them."

A simple smile graces my face, the idea appealing more and more to me.

This 'Elysium' is a s*x trafficking event where girls—some willing, others less so—parade themselves for the pleasure of available powerful men. Basic, right? But in other exclusive rooms are the girls being sold. There are different specifications: blonde, pale, black, curvy, skinny, virgin… It's all types of shitty in there.

An exclusive member gets the chance to 'buy' a female human and use her as they see fit. Reigns do not involve themselves in such.

Well, in all honesty, we did—until my Uncle Regan made the rule that we don't. I couldn't be more thankful.

"Vincenzo DeLuca made an appearance at the Pit last night."

"So I heard." I lean forward, drawing a stash of papers closer.

Kylian grabs his glass of scotch, sipping from it like he's got all the time in the world. "He bet that the Bull would take our champion down."

And he didn't lose.

"Heard one of our man was responsible for serving Goliath a sedative that dulled his performance." With a pen, I trace the outline of the contract, the cold of the metal settling on my palm.

He leans forward to place the cup back on the table. "Dealt with."

Good.

There's silence for a minute or two, then he starts again. "We have an issue with one of our front men."

Classic Kylian. He always has a thing or two to report.

I lift my eyes, flicking the golden pen between my fingers, the friction slightly peeling my skin. "Is it the missing goods one?"

He nods.

With a little sigh, I return my attention to the sheet. "I heard it was a soldier."

"No," he corrects. "A civilian."

"So, where is this dead civilian?"

Swiftly, he stands from his seat and briskly walks to the door.

Already understanding what's to come next, I let the pen fall to the table with a rattling click and lean back into my swivel, hands folded across my chest, left leg resting on right—perfectly unbothered.

Kylian opens the doors and steps out. It doesn’t take a minute before a man comes hurtling through those same doors, greatly contrasting the calmness of Kylian's earlier exit.

Without waiting to be dragged to me, the bloodied, tattered man runs to my table, throwing himself on it, smearing it with his blood—yet another mistake he can't afford.

"Please." The word bursts out, sending light sprays of blood my way.

Kylian—great man—senses my discomfort and pulls him back.

"Please. Boss. Spare me." The doomed man continues to beg for a life he doesn't own anymore. "I didn't mean to betray you."

"So you know it was betrayal," my voice seeps through my teeth like toxic gas through air vents. I'm unsure which annoys me more, the fact that this man can't account for goods worth millions of dollars, or the persistent red stain against the otherwise flawless surface of my desk.

"Ple-ease…"

I draw my lids over my eyes, inhaling deeply.

"It wasn't intended." He continues to sob, disrupting even the peace of mind I'm trying to cultivate in his interest.

With a firm push, I get on my feet, walking around the table to stand on the side where the smear won't bother me—much.

"How many bags?"

"Twenty," Kylian answers, his tone almost more irritated than mine.

My eyes drop to the man praying on the floor, his eyes shut, hands clamped in front of his face.

God can't save you.

Slowly, my eyes run over his entire body, taking in the damage. Most notable is the crack on his forehead that runs from the middle to the side. It's a deep gash that won't heal anytime soon. His clothes are torn where the iron whip tore him, and a portion of his hair looks like it was shaved off with force.

My eyes return to Kylian. Little prick almost didn't leave some for me. One side of his lips pulls into a sly smirk—he understands without words.

Heaving, I press my hands into my pockets and lean, resting my ass on the table. "You know, my father would usually toss a coin in situations like this."

His eyes shoot open just before he goes flat on the floor, still making the mistake of smearing my workspace with his contaminated blood.

"He'd give meaning to each outcome." I push myself from my half-standing, half-sitting position and move in the other direction. "If it came out heads, the offender—regardless of his offense—would be condemned to death." On the shelf behind my table, I reach for a shaker and a die, then head back. "If it came out tails—depending on his offense—the person might still end up with the death sentence."

"Forgive me!" His voice is shaky, but firm.

I don't like that.

The die clicks softly as it drops into the shaker. "Let's play something similar, but with a die." I shrug. "Compared to my father, I'm almost kind."

But instead of jumping at my generosity, he remains on the floor, weeping and begging like an insufferable child.

"Get up!" I rumble, my patience wearing thin.

It takes him some time, time he doesn't have, but slowly, he pushes himself from the floor into a kneeling position, his body trembling.

Good.

I go ahead to explain the rules to him. "There are no rules." He blinks, making the tears fall from his eyes. "It's pretty simple, from one to six, we interchangeable pick a result for each outcome."

His eyes widen a little, confusion etched into his forehead.

"When I roll the die," I lean on the table again, "whatever the outcome will be your sentence." He's still confused, and that pleases me. "I will start. One means you die."

"Ugh!" He falls back, hitting the polished floor with a light thud. "N-no…" He shakes his head continuously. "P-please. Nn-o"

"I don't have all day." I keep the shaker moving in my hands, rolling it back and forth, the dice clattering insistently inside.

"I'm begging you!" His voice fills the room, scraping down my ear canal.

"Two means you'd die," my voice is flat, eyes locked on the motherfucker.

He's fully confused now, his lips opening and shutting without a sound. "Th-that w-was—"

"Give the outcome for the next number or watch me do it again."

"I will live!" he shouts, positioning himself on his knees and crawling closer. I push into my table like it might get me away from him. "If it turns three, that means I will be spared."

A smirk pulls one side of my face up, adrenaline rushing to my head, flooding my senses.

Game on.