Chapter 132: Chessboard

CASSIAN

The ballroom was a sea of moving parts, a complex machinery of ego and ambition, but my focus remained fixed on a single point of failure: Noah.

During my speech, I hadn’t just been delivering lines; I had been dissecting him. From the podium, the perspective was perfect. I saw the way he shifted in his seat, his hands twisting a linen napkin into a ruin.

He was flushed, a deep, blooming heat creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. When our eyes met, it was like watching a live wire spark. He couldn’t look away, his pupils blown wide, before he’d jerk his gaze back to the table as if burned.

Then, he stood. He excused himself with a frantic sort of grace, walking with a stiff, careful gait, the walk of a man trying to hide a very specific kind of physical predicament. I knew that look. I had caused it.

When he returned much later, he was still vibrating. Fidgety. Distracted. He looked like he was one loud noise away from shattering.

And then there was Alex. The way Hendrix had slipped away after his own performance, disappearing with two security guards who looked less like bodyguards and more like cleaners. Twenty minutes of dead air. No explanation.

I catalogued it all. Every suspicious movement, every micro-expression. My predator’s instinct was screaming, but I remained seated. I was the centerpiece of this gala; I had to wait for the play to come to me. I had to wait for Emilio Vincenti to show his hand.

The vibration against my thigh was a welcome distraction from the sight of Alex’s hand sliding back onto Noah’s waist. I pulled the device out. My father’s name glowed on the screen like a warning light.

I stood, adjusting my jacket, and found a quiet alcove near the heavy velvet curtains of the North exit.

“Father,” I said, my voice dropping into the flat, hollow tone I reserved exclusively for him.

“Cassian. How is the event?” Charles Wolfe’s voice was as smooth as aged cognac and just as likely to burn. It was a masterpiece of manufactured concern. “I heard about the accident. Terrible business. But you seem to have recovered well.”

“I’m fine,” I said shortly.

“Good. Good. The project is proceeding smoothly? The partnership announcement went well?”

There it was. The inevitable pivot. My father didn’t care about the concussion or the fact that his eldest son had nearly been crushed into a cube of scrap metal. He cared about the optics. He cared about the quarterly projections. To Charles Wolfe, I wasn’t a son; I was a high-performing asset that had recently suffered a mechanical glitch.

“Everything’s on schedule,” I replied.

“Excellent. This partnership, it’s crucial for our expansion. The investors are pleased. The board is satisfied. We can’t afford any disruptions, Cassian. Not when we’re this close to breaking ground.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you’re being careful? No more… incidents?”

The way he said incidents made my jaw ache. He said it as if the assassination attempt had been a lapse in my judgment, a clumsy mistake I’d made rather than a targeted strike by a rival Don.

“I’m handling it,” I said, my voice tightening.

“See that you do,” he said, the warmth vanishing from his tone. “Keep me updated.”

The line went dead. I stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary. I wanted to call him back and tell him I knew exactly what he was, a man who would step over his children’s corpses if it meant a seat at a bigger table. But I didn’t. I had work to do.

I pocketed the phone and turned back toward the ballroom, but I didn’t make it three steps before a man stepped into my path.

He was impeccably groomed, wearing a tuxedo that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. He had the polished, vacant look of a high-end valet or a very expensive lawyer. But his eyes were too active. He was scanning my perimeter even as he bowed.

“Mr. Wolfe,” he said, his voice a low, cultured murmur. “My employer wishes to meet with you.”

I studied him, my eyes narrowing. “Your employer?”

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a business card. It was heavy, cream-colored vellum with gold-engraved lettering. Lorenzo Marchetti. Import/Export. Real Estate Acquisitions.

The name was familiar. Marchetti was a titan in the Mediterranean, the kind of “legitimate” businessman my father spent years trying to court. He was connected, powerful, and clean enough to pass a federal audit but still small enough for the Wolfe family to swallow.

“He has a proposal,” the man continued. “Time-sensitive. He’s waiting nearby.”

I looked at the card, then back at the man. “If Mr. Marchetti wants to talk business, he knows where my table is. Why the theatrics?”

The man smiled, a thin, oily expression. “Mr. Marchetti prefers privacy for sensitive matters. He didn’t want to cause a scene in front of the… Hendrix contingent.”

I should have declined. I should have turned around, walked back to my table, and kept my eyes on Noah and Alex. This had “trap” written in bold, red letters across it.

But this was exactly what I had been waiting for. This was movement. This was Emilio Vincenti, or someone like him, reaching out from the shadows. I was tired of being the target; I wanted to be the hunter.

I glanced back at the ballroom one last time. I saw Noah. He was looking directly at me, his eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and naked worry. He knew something was happening. Beside him, Alex was leaning in, his hand splayed across the small of Noah’s back. Possessive. Claiming.

The sight of it gave me the final push I needed. I needed to get out of this room before I did something that would truly ruin the “Wolfe” reputation.

“Lead the way,” I said.

My security detail fell in around me the moment I crossed the threshold. Four men, hand-picked and lethal, led by Reid’s second-in-command.

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