Page 77 of Brox Boar

Another adds, “Maybe your old man got busy and forgot to mention the spare.”

Rex throws a look over his shoulder. “Keep your mouth shut!”

The jokes keep coming. Crude, amused, testing. The room enjoys the idea that Rex’s father “fucked around,” that a secret son has crawled out of the shadows.

Brox doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t react. He waits until the laughter thins, then speaks.

“This is why I came um… I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Brox is looking at the boss.

The room stills slightly. The boss’ gaze sharpens. Then he speaks.

“Don Giacomo.”

Brox sets his whisky down. “My foster father died. His will surfaced things that don’t match the story we were told.”

Rex’s expression shifts, the amusement draining.

Brox nods once. “And it points right here.”

The Don’s fingers tap the armrest once. Slow. Deliberate.

Brox continues. “I want to know if anyone here knows the name Sorrentino.”

The room changes instantly. It’s subtle, yet it’s there–the way shoulders tighten, eyes avert, the way the air loses its casual cruelty. No one jokes now.

Rex straightens, confusion flickering. “Who–”

Don Giacomo spits on the side. Then his voice cuts through the room. “You will never speak that name in my presence again.”

The Don’s gaze locks on him, and a thick silence settles. Then he stands, slow, his presence filling the room without him needing to raise his voice.

“This meeting is over,” he says.

Brox’s jaw flexes. “Wait–”

“Get them out.” The Don turns and leaves through a side door, disappearing without another word.

The men in the room exchange looks. Rex’s gaze hardens. “You just signed your own death warrant.”

Brox’s eyes narrow. “I want to know the truth.”

Rex’s gaze flicks to me. “And what about her?”

Brox doesn’t glance at me this time, yet his body shifts slightly, placing himself between me and Rex’s line of sight.

“She’s with me,” Brox says.

A man on the other side speaks, tone casual, eyes hard. “She’s payment.”

Another adds, “You spoke to the boss. That’s done. Now we collect what’s ours.”

Brox’s jaw tightens. He looks around the room, weighing his position. Then he nods once, slow, deliberate, like he’s choosing the least terrible option.

“Fine,” he says. “We’re staying at the Hilton Chicago. I’ll make sure she’s ready.” His gaze sweeps the room. “For all of you.”

“Nah,” someone scoffs from the side. “He’s not staying there.”

Brox doesn’t look away. He keeps his eyes on Rex, unwavering, serious in a way that drains the humor from the room.