7. Blake

CHAPTER 7

Blake

O nly Yve would call a board meeting on a Sunday afternoon. In her perfect world, everyone would work seven days a week, there’s no such things as weekends or holidays. Which is why we’re all gathered around this table today instead of waiting until Monday morning.

Partly, I think she does this to fuck with me, since she knows I have my own business to run. The only reason I’m sitting on the board of directors for Titan Enterprises is to keep my brother Liam’s seat warm while he’s in college. He’ll inherit this position as soon as he graduates, and I’ll be damned if I let Yve run the company without keeping an eye on what she’s doing.

So for the past three years, this is where I’ve spent the majority of my weekly working hours. In this hell.

Peter, Titan Enterprises CFO, drones on and on about last quarter’s financial reports. This board meeting should have ended at least an hour ago. Everyone around the table’s getting antsy, toying with their pencils, or zoning out on the whiteboard behind Peter’s head.

Everyone except for my step-monster. Yve keeps glancing at her watch. I look at mine and discover it’s three minutes past four in the afternoon. She must have hired a new assistant. One that isn’t punctual.

I can’t wait for this shit-show to go down.

Sure enough, the boardroom door bursts open, drawing everyone’s attention to the frazzled mess of a young woman standing there. Her dress suit’s wrinkled, hair frizzy, and cheeks flushed. In one hand she holds a venti Starbucks beverage. Ducking her head, she makes a beeline for Yve, whose heated scowl could light the devil on fire.

“I said four PM sharp , Erica.” She grabs the drink from her assistant. “It’s almost five minutes after the hour. Five minutes. If I wanted my latte at four-o-five, I would have told you so.”

The young woman withers under Yve’s vicious gaze. Everyone else in the room shifts uncomfortably in their seats. Even Peter stops talking for a minute.

Yve sips her drink and her face scrunches in disgust. “Is this made with milk ?”

“It-it’s a latte, ma’am.” Erica nervously twists her fingers together.

If I weren’t used to Yve’s tirades, I’d cringe at the girl’s poor choice of explanation.

“I didn’t ask you if this was a latte, you brainless idiot. I asked if this is made with milk!”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“From a cow?” Yve’s shrill voice causes temporary hearing loss.

Her assistant hesitantly nods.

Yve hurls the cardboard cup against the far wall. Several board members duck in order to dodge the steaming missile that paints the white wall in brown liquid.

“I don’t drink cow’s milk!” Yve shrieks. “I said almond milk, you moron! You’re fired!” She makes a shooing motion. “Get out of my sight.”

Erica bolts out the door. No arguing. No begging to keep her job.

Another one bites the dust.

Yve glares around the silent room.

Unflinchingly, I gaze at the creature who rules over the Baron family business that my father left behind. He left everything in her tainted hands. The woman has never worked a day in her life until three years ago. Until she became acting CEO until Liam’s old enough to take charge.

As much as I hated my father, my other reason for being here is to keep Yve within my sight. I’m ninety percent sure she had a hand in his death, whether she did the deed, orchestrated it, or paid someone else to do it, hardly matters. She influenced him to change his will to suit her own needs and then did away with him.

If only I could prove my suspicion that Yve murdered my father. But I can’t prove it. For three fucking years I’ve been trying to find something to pin on her, only to keep coming up empty-handed. Frustration burns through my chest.

The fishing boat explosion left no evidence behind. Not a shred.

For the past three years I’ve been waiting and watching for Yve to slip up. Everyone does eventually. And when she does, I’ll be there to help her fall to ruin.

It’s what I do best, after all.

My phone rings and I fish it out of my suit pocket, ignoring Yve’s sharp glare. To further annoy her, I take the call in the boardroom, not bothering to budge from my seat.

“Baron,” I say into my cell phone.

“It’s Dimitri Kozlov.”

I sigh. “Yes, I know. What do you want?”

Thankfully he gets right to the point. “I’m having some trouble at one of my clubs. Roman said you could help.”

Did he now..?

“Go on.”

“Someone’s raped and murdered two of my waitresses right behind Riot . The security camera I put out there turned up disconnected and my security team can’t catch this guy. I think he works at the club. I need someone from the outside to deal with him.”

Interesting.

Without a single glance at the board members, I step out of the room. This meeting is fucking over anyway.

“Why not have your Bratva men take care of it?” I ask, strolling in the hallway.

“Some of my men work at the club. I don’t know if he’s Bratva or not.”

I step into the elevator and push the button for the lobby level. “So you want me to set up a little sting operation?”

“I want you to do whatever will catch this fucker before he kills someone else.” Dimitri pauses, and I can practically hear him raking his fingers through his short hair. “Money’s no object, so name your price.”

I tsk . “You know I don’t do favors for money, Kozlov.” Silly boy .

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fine. I’ll owe you a favor in return. Just make sure it’s not something that’ll piss off my wife.”

“I can’t promise you that, as I don’t allow conditions placed on favors owed. Do we have a deal or not?”

He hesitates. “We have a deal.”

“It probably won’t be tonight, I’m busy. Send me what info you have.”

“If not tonight, then when?—?”

I hang up on him, not in the mood for stupid questions. I’ll deal with his problem later, after dinner with Ginevra.

And Roman’s going to help me because he sent Kozlov my way. I swear my best friend’s going soft since he married the eldest Pontrelli girl. He and Kozlov are brothers-in-law by marriage, and he treats the young Bratva pakhan like family.

Shit, I just realized that I’ll be joining that family when I wed the youngest Pontrelli—even temporarily. Roman’s going to give me hell for marrying her, then dig my grave when I divorce her, supposedly breaking her heart. For a fleeting second, I consider letting him in on this game Gin and I are playing, then dismiss the idea. No one can know the truth. Not even Roman.