Page 93 of Brox Boar

Brox pauses mid-bite. “For what?”

Rio takes a sip of coffee, his eyes trained on him. “I spoke to Waddington. We’re inviting Alessio for dinner. Today.”

Brox straightens. “To meet his maker?”

“Yes.” Rio’s voice stays calm. “I’m done with that pretentious prick. Sorrentino blood.”

Brox smiles, sharp and pleased. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

He pulls out his cell and dials, pacing a step away from the counter. I keep eating, syrup sticking to my fingers, watching the two of them in my peripheral vision. Rio stands still, coffee in hand, already finished with the decision.

“Alessio. All good?” Brox glances at us, grin spreading. “Yeah. All good.”

We don’t hear the reply, only Brox’s reactions.

“Mhm. We’re happy with the split rooms. Club’s pulling more money now. Kudos.”

He pauses, then laughs softly. “Listen, are you free for dinner tonight?”

Another pause.

Brox looks at Rio, then at me. His eyes settle on my face. “It’s Lana’s birthday,” he says into the cell, voice warm and convincing. “Thought she’d enjoy an extra man at the table.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s one of those dinners.”

Rio grins over the rim of his mug. I shake my head, already accepting how this plays out. Alessio doesn’t matter. Liking him never enters the equation. I know one thing with certainty, I’d move mountains for my Boars.

“Tonight,” Brox says. “Six. Penthouse.”

He listens once more, then ends the call. “Sorted.”

He pockets the cell, satisfaction written all over him.

Rio sets his mug down. “Good. We’re done here.”

I glance between them. With the dinner plans set, I take another bite of pancake and smile.

CHAPTER 25

BROX

Six p.m. lands on the penthouse with a quiet certainty. We are going through with this. One thing to tick off our list before handling Chicago.

Shiaou sets the dining room the way he does everything in here. Perfect. The long table sits under warm lighting, the linen is smooth, glassware aligned, cutlery placed with the sort of discipline most people reserve for ceremonies.

I walk around the penthouse, making sure everything is where it should be. I don’t want any mistakes tonight.

Lana comes through to the dinning room dressed to ruin a man’s judgment. Her bodycon dress is yellow, with a flawless fit. Her blond hair is loose, soft on her shoulders, she’s shining bright against our black suits.

She takes her seat with grace, her dress shifting over her thighs as she settles, her legs crossing slowly. It’s a small decision, but it speaks. Tonight, she isn’t a guest. She a decoration.

Rio stands at the window for a moment, jacket perfect, vest flat against his torso, his tie straight. Three-piece suit, tailored to his frame, built for intimidation and compliance. He watches the city without warmth, then checks his watch once.

“Six,” he says, and pours champagne into three flutes, then leaves the bottle resting in ice. He doesn’t drink yet. He simply prepares.

The elevator dings. We’re on.

Brox and I look at each other, listening to Shiaou’s voice, polite and firm. He ushers Alessio to the dining room.