Finn's POV
I let him paw at me, a doll in his grip, his anxious eyes boring into me. It stirred something - anger, maybe, or worse, something soft I couldn't stomach. I shoved him back, sharp and sudden. "I'm fine," I snarled, turning to walk away.
The flowers hit the ground behind me, petals scattering like spilled guts.
"Pick them up," I ordered, my tone cold.
He immediately obeyed, bending down to gather the mess, his muscles flexing beneath the suit. I watched him, my mind a battlefield of desire and disgust. He was mine, bought and owned, yet with every touch, every glance, I felt like I was the one being claimed.
I stepped on his back. Hard.
Kairo scrambled on all fours before me, fingers trembling as they snatched at scattered petals - crimson on stone, like the blood already smearing his split lip. His haste amused me. The way his breath hitched, the way his shoulders tensed when my shadow fell over him.
I let him hope for a second longer. Then my boot came down between his shoulder blades, driving him into the ground with a crack of bone meeting marble. His face hit first, that pretty mouth smearing red across the tiles. The petals beneath him drank it up, turning darker, hungrier.
I leaned down, close enough to catch the copper tang of his blood. "Did I say you could stop?" My voice was a lazy drawl, but his flinch was immediate. His body knew better than his mind.
Kairo turned his head just enough to look up. That look - like a kicked dog still waiting for praise - sent heat curling low in my gut.
I stepped back, watching him sag. "Clean it up," I said, flicking a stray petal off my sleeve. "Before I decide to make you eat the mess instead."
He didn't speak. Just dragged himself onto his elbows and started gathering the ruined flowers again, hands shaking. I turned away, the image of his submission burning bright behind my eyes.
This was power. Not crowns or titles, but the salt of tears on my boots, the silence of a broken thing too afraid to scream.
And those damn flowers. Well, some flowers only bloom in rot. Like me, thriving in the decay, in the filth of what we were.
Leah's POV
The lobby of Casa Faena was a cathedral of greed. Marble floors polished to a knife's edge, chandeliers dripping light like molten gold, and the air thick with the stench of expensive cologne and cheaper ambition.
Four male models flanked me, their biceps straining under the weight of my briefcases, their faces blank as mannequins. I'd chosen them for that very reason: beautiful, silent, disposable. The hotel guests whispered behind their champagne flutes, their stares peeling back my designer dress like I was still on the auction block. This is because, well, some things never changed.
The bodyguards in black formed a wall of muscle at the elevator bank, bowing in unison. The lead one - jaw like a shovel, eyes dead as a shark's - stepped forward. "Mr. Cosa has been waiting for you at the penthouse," he said, then flicked a glance at the models. "Who are these?"
I smiled, all teeth. "Bag carriers." I tapped the nearest briefcase. The sound was heavy, deliberate.
The bodyguard looked confused. "You need four men to carry bags for you?"
I shrugged. "I've got a lot of bags."
The bodyguard's throat worked. "Well, Mr. Cosa said you come alone."
"Then you'll take these upstairs for me," I said, sliding a stack of bills into his breast pocket. His fingers twitched - too much, too obvious - but greed won. He barked orders, and his men swarmed the briefcases like hyenas on carrion.
"Your… companions can wait at the bar. It's an open bar," he muttered, patting me down with clinical efficiency. His hands lingered at my waist, testing. I let him. Let them all think they had the upper hand.
"Well, that might be a problem," I sighed, nodding at the models. "They're minors. No alcohol, please. Do you have some diet coke or soda or something? Oh, and you need to make sure they are at least 8 feet away from any grown-up woman... and man."
"Sure, Mrs. Winters. I'll keep an eye on them," Another wad of cash disappeared into his palm. His confusion was almost pitiful.
The private elevator climbed in silence, my reflection warping in the gold-tinted mirrors. 101 floors. 101 chances to turn back. But the doors slid open to a tableau of power: a sprawling penthouse, the Miami skyline bleeding neon into the room, a dozen men in tailored suits hunched over a gambling table like vultures. And at the center - Tommy Cosa, shirt unbuttoned to his navel, a Playboy bunny on each arm.
"Mrs. Winters!" Tommy's grin was a knife wound. "Vodka? Martini? Cyanide, maybe?"
The room laughed on cue. I let my gaze drag over the table - deputy mayor, deputy police chief, a few justice department ghouls. All pretending not to know me. All failing.
"I'm sorry about your brother," I said, sweet as arsenic. "I've set up a medical foundation in his name. You're the permanent director, of course. No one better."
Tommy's smile cracked. His father used to set up a wildlife protection fund and he managed to drain every single dime out of it. This embezzlement scandal had nearly gotten him drowned in the Everglades. Now his fingers dug into the bunny's hip, knuckles white. "How… generous," he spat. "But let's talk cash. Tonight's game is physical. Have you brought any cash?"
The elevator dinged. The bodyguards marched in with my briefcases, stacking them like bricks. Tommy's pupils dilated.
"I can't bring more cases," I shrugged. "My boys only have got two hands."
Tommy smirked.
The game began. Tommy needled me about my "tragic widow" status, the men chuckling into their cigars. I lost hand after hand, letting the deputy police chief rake in chips. His cheeks flushed with victory and bourbon. "Beginner's luck!" he slurred.
"Or divine intervention," I murmured, toasting him.