Page 150 of The Ache That Stayed

Isat beside Ronnie and his fixer, Lin, in a private room tucked deep inside a gentleman’s club in London. Across from us sat Jimmy Yang and another syndicate head, their men stationed behind them like silent reminders of what this room could turn into if things went wrong.

This was meant to be a negotiation—consignment routes through overlapping territories. Instead, it was fracturing into a personal discussion.

Ronnie and Jimmy weren’t discussing business anymore. They were circling each other over something far more volatile.

Jimmy’s sister.

Three men spoke over each other in rapid Mandarin and Cantonese, voices layered with accusation and restraint. Territory disputes dressed up as negotiation. Ego masquerading as strategy. Only Ronnie knew I understood every word.

Ronnie and I had never relied on the comfort of inherited alliances, even if our fathers had once stood on the same side of a table like this. I was older, more measured, already shaping empires while he was still proving himself. But Ronnie had never learned to step back from a fight.

I had seen it firsthand years ago, when I crossed into territory I shouldn’t have and found myself at the wrong end of steel. He hadn’t hesitated. No calculation, no negotiation—just instinct. He stepped in, not because it benefited him, but because he chose to. That kind of loyalty is rare. It earns respect. It also makes men reckless. And currently, Ronnie had been leaning too far into that edge.

There was a time I would have called that confidence. Now it felt closer to carelessness. It was becoming difficult to tell confidence from recklessness.

“Our investors don’t appreciate your interference,” one of them said, his gaze flicking between Ronnie and me.

“Get better investors,” Lin replied lazily.

“If you touch our consignments again, this becomes war.”

His fingers tapped once against the table. A tell.

The argument slipped fully into Mandarin now, sharper, faster.

“Pull your consignments off our routes, and we stop interfering,” Lin snapped.

“Deal,” Jimmy said smoothly. “Tell this scum to stay away from my sister.”

His finger pointed at Ronnie.

“What if she’s the one who can’t stay away from me?” Ronnie replied.

He spoke calmly, almost lazily, as if none of this mattered—but I knew better. Ronnie never raised his voice. Never showed his anger. He didn’t need to. It lived beneath the surface, controlled and contained, the way fire sits beneath steel. You didn’t see it until it was too late—and by then, it was already consuming everything in its path.

Like a tiger. Still enough to be mistaken for calm. Until it moved.

Voices overlapped again, tension climbing fast. I exhaled slowly, irritation settling beneath my skin. We had chosen London for a reason. Neutral ground. Quick resolution. Close enough that I could be on a flight before she even knew I was coming.

Roxanne.

The thought lingered longer than it should have. For the first time in three years, silence had settled between us. And I disliked it more than I cared to admit. Unease lingered at the back of my mind, refusing to fully form. I hated uncertainty. Especially when it involved her.

My phone buzzed and I chose to ignore it. Interruptions were constant in my world—calls, updates, shifting alliances that needed to be contained before they became worse. Another vibration and this time I glanced down.

Unknown Number.

I almost ignored it until an image loaded. My brows furrowed slightly, as though the image might explain itself if I stared long enough.

Roxanne walking out of a motel—with Santino. Too close. Too familiar. I stared at the image longer than I should have, not reacting—just taking it in with a stillness I had learned to perfect over years of being watched.

Men like me survive by never reacting too quickly.

Emotion made people predictable. And predictable men died early.

The picture wasn’t explicit. There was nothing in it that could be called proof. But familiarity has a language of its own. And I knew both of them too well to miss it. That, more than anything, was what unsettled me.

And I knew it wasn’t random. Men didn’t send things like this unless they believed they were holding the blade and expecting blood. More images followed. Different angles. Same implication. And then a message followed almost immediately.