Page 35 of Vance

“I know.”

His jaw flexes. “Then why aren’t we?”

I pick up my bourbon and take a slow swallow, letting the burn give me something else to concentrate on. “Because I gave them three weeks.”

“You gave her three weeks.” His correction is deliberate.

I set my glass down, realizing this conversation has finally reached the place we’ve all been avoiding. “She’s my wife.”

Kaden’s mouth twists. “She’s an executive who happened to become your wife.”

His words shouldn’t bother me as much as they do, but anger courses through my veins. Pushing to my feet, I snarl, “You want to say something, fucking say it.”

“I am fucking saying it.” Kaden folds his hands together, his eyes never leaving mine. “You are letting her interfere with a project that was supposed to be one of the first things you finished after Roman died. The city is ready. The contractors are ready. The architects are ready. We own the property. We have the financing. We have every piece in place except the tenants, and instead of handling them, you’re waiting.”

“I’m honoring an agreement.”

Kaden gives a humorless laugh. “Since when do Ashfords uphold their promises?”

I glance at the windows, the Chicago skyline glittering beyond the glass, every bit as beautiful as the way my father described it. It’s ours because he never asked for permission. The way he wielded consequences and leverage was irrelevant. My brothers learned that lesson from him young. So did I.

People are for getting what you want; pretending they are more is nothing more than a mistake.

“She’s got two more days.”

Kaden leans forward. “And I’m asking you why.”

I don’t answer, because the truth is more complicated than I want it to be. I could tell him it was strategy, because Sophia understood the South Side acquisition better than anyone else. I could tell him I’m doing it to test her. I could tell him I wanted to give her an opportunity to prove that her objections weren’t simply emotional.

All those things would be true, but none of them would be the whole truth.

She’s one of the few people who isn’t afraid to look me in the eye and challenge me with every ounce of courage she has. She doesn’t back down, soften her words, or bend simply because I expect her to.

And, God help me, I like it.

“Two more days we don’t have,” Kaden counters, his hand clamping down on my shoulder, a grip of steel that is both reassurance and a threat. “We promised the investors and the board. This project is the key to everything. The port, the waterfront, the entire future of this city. We can’t let a handful of tenants stand in our way. The agreement was made when she was just an employee—a bargaining chip. Now she’s your wife. It changes things. It makes you look weak. It makes us look fucking weak.”

I shake his hand off, my movements sharp and angry. “I’m handling it.”

“Are you?” Beckett needles, swirling his own drink. “Because it looks to us like you’re more concerned with dressing up your new toy than you are with business. For what? So she can look pretty while we squander this deal?”

My brothers exchange a look, a silent communication that bypasses me completely. “Then it’s time to stop playing games, Vance,” Kaden rumbles. “The time you’ve given her was a courtesy. The real work needs to begin. Now.”

He’s right. The clock is ticking. My agreement with Sophia was a gamble, one I’ve let go on far too long. I finish my whiskey in a single gulp and stand, throwing a few bills on the bar. “You’re right. We end this, the Ashford way”

The grin that spreads across Beckett’s face is feral. “Now you’re fucking talking.”

We move as a unit, a pack of predators slipping out into the cool night air. Xander is waiting by the curb, leaning against a black SUV, his massive frame a silent, imposing presence. He doesn’t speak, though he rarely does, as he opens the door and gets behind the wheel.

The drive to the South Side is a journey into a different world, a world of crumbling brick and flickering neon, of lives lived on the margins. A world I am about to erase. “The old dry cleaner,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension in the car. “He’s the ringleader. His shop is on the corner.”

Beckett and Baldwin jump out of the SUV before it’s fully stopped, melting into the shadows. I watch them in the side mirror, two identical blurs of expensive suits and malicious intent. A few minutes later, they return with smug expressions. “His tires are slashed,” Beckett reports, sliding into his seat. “All four. And Baldwin left a little present in his mailbox.”

Baldwin chuckles like a mischievous child. “A dead rat. Very vintage. Very South Side.”

We drive on, a phantom of destruction in the night, leaving a trail of fear and intimidation in our wake. This is the Ashford way. This is what my brothers understand. This is the language I was born to speak. My softness for a woman was a moment of weakness, a foolish detour. But I am back on the Ashford path now. The path of fire and iron that my father instilled in me.

Xander navigates the SUV through the labyrinth of the South Side, the expensive suspension absorbing the potholes of well-worn streets. The neighborhood is a testament to decay, a monument to forgotten dreams. Graffiti bleeds across the brick walls of boarded-up storefronts. This is the rot I am here to remove. This is the canvas upon which I will build my legacy. The South Side will be mine.