Page 124 of Riot

I nodded, stepping away from Malia. She held my gaze until I climbed into my car.

Today was the day. The calm before the storm was already cracking.

By nightfall, the King’s Vine would be stained. And my brothers?

They’d finally learn what it felt like to lose everything.

Chapter 43

RIOT

I looked good. I knew it, and so did everybody else.

Tailored navy suit, crisp collar, no tie. Gold pin gleaming against my lapel, initials of my name and my legacy carved into metal. I shook hands like I’d been born for this, because I had. These people weren’t just here for the wine—they were here for me. For the King name. For the myth and the money behind it.

And I didn’t disappoint.

The courtyard buzzed with power. There were restaurateurs from SoHo, liquor buyers from all over the tri-state and press crews trying to play it cool while they filmed. Every camera found me eventually. I made sure of it. The King’s Vine logo sat behind me like a crown, and I rocked it like a fuckin’ throne.

Creed stood off to the left with his arms crossed in Tom Ford. I could sense the pride bouncing off of him towards me. King’s Vine was my pet project that I was seeing from beginning to end.

Sloane and Allure worked the floor like seasoned pros—smiling, sipping, commanding attention. A journalist fromForbesasked Allure about her dress, and she tilted her head withthat coy smile I knew too well, offering a sharp, clever answer that had them eating out of her palm.

I couldn’t help watching Allure from across the room, the way she tossed her hair, the curve of her mouth when she caught me staring. She winked, slow and smug, and I smirked right back, already planning how I’d peel that dress off her later.

Meanwhile, Abra held it down behind the scenes, running logistics with one hand and handling a caterer meltdown with the other like a damn general.

I made my rounds, shaking hands, answering questions, posing for pictures. “Yes, all grapes are estate-grown and everything is organic. That’s a personal mission of mine. To have the highest quality wine available.” I dropped lines like that with a smirk, watching them eat it up.

Eventually, I broke from the crowd and found Rollo posted up near one of the outdoor bars, sipping one of the moscatos.

“This is the only one I like,” I he laughed.

“Cuz it’s sweet. The dry shit is an acquired taste,” I said.

“You can say that again. That shit… I can’t get with it but you’re doing a good job bro. I’d say your Pops would be proud but fuck that nigga. I know your mom is proud for sure,” he said as he swallowed the last bit.

“If she were in her right mind, she could let me know but fuck all that. I got a lil business to discuss with you. Update me on that whole Israeli situation,” I said, keeping my voice low but steady.

Rollo didn’t waste time. “Irina’s back at my spot. She’s calm. Said she ain’t stepping foot back in that house again.”

“She shouldn’t. She did good?”

He nodded. “Real good. Gave us her daddy’s new spot. Some safehouse in Queens. Industrial district. Off the grid but not invisible. We can move in whenever.”

I tilted my head, considering it. “We gotta handle that soon.”

Rollo sat his glass down. “Hell yeah. Get that shit done and over with. ”

“We’ll get in and out. Handle that shit. And then I’m done with killing. I just wanna grow my grapes and be with my woman.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “You really out here turning into Creed.”

“Nah,” I said, flashing a quick grin. “Just growing up..”

Rollo picked up his glass and clinked it against mine. “Fair enough.”

I watched the crowd a moment longer—Senator Rodriguez shaking hands with Creed, a journalist fromEaterfilming a sommelier walk-through, an influencer perched on a wine barrel pretending not to pose.

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