Page 31 of Riot

Betrayed. Unseen. Powerless.

I don’t care that I’m a King by blood. I don’t care what the last name on the paperwork says. That legacy? It was never mine to begin with. They made sure of that.

But I’ll carve a new one.

Out of ash. Out of vengeance. Out of fire so hot not even memory will survive.

And the next time they look at me?

They won’t see a brother.

They’ll see their reckoning.

By the time I pulled up to the office, my jaw was still sore. The swelling had gone down some, but the bruising was a slow, deep ache—a reminder of Riot’s favorite way to communicate when he didn’t feel like listening. I flexed my hand once, imagining how it would feel to return the favor.

The King Security and Logistics building sat dead in the heart of midtown Manhattan—glass and steel and arrogance stacked thirty floors high. Our name was etched across the front like a signature on a contract you didn’t get to refuse.

Inside, the walls were sleek. Cold. Monitors flickered. Guards nodded when I passed. Everyone knew who I was, but nobody greeted me the way they did Riot or Creed.

I wasn’t one ofthem.

Not really.

The boardroom was already half full when I got there. Creed sat at the head of the table, looking like a CEO cover model—sharp suit, sharp jaw, eyes like a loaded weapon. Riot was posted on the far side, dressed down in a black tee and diamonds but somehow still commanding the room without saying a damn word. His body language screamed dominance. That was the thing about Riot—he didn’t need a crown. Hewasthe storm.

Abra sat to Creed’s left, tapping away at her tablet like she was running the whole damn company from that one device. A few other department heads were present—guys who used torun numbers for Silas, now repurposed into Creed’s clean-cut lieutenants. Everyone quieted the second Creed spoke.

“This quarter, we’ve seen a thirty-seven percent uptick in gross from our European accounts. Amsterdam is back online, and Berlin’s expansion is ahead of schedule,” he said, flipping to the next slide like he was talking about real estate, not global power moves. “Domestic operations are stable. Contracts are clean. Government heat is nonexistent.”

The room nodded. I didn’t.

I leaned back in my chair and watched him.

Creed had everything I wanted—respect, control, reach. And Riot? Riot had everything else—fear, loyalty, and that untouchable energy that made soldiers follow him without question. Together, they were gods to this empire.

And me?

Still sitting in the fucking pews, waiting for a miracle.

Riot leaned forward, voice low and casual. “As y’all know, I’ve been focused more on the vineyard these days. The King’s Vine is doing well, real well—but it’s pulling me out of some of the heavier stuff. We’ve got distribution deals locked up already. That open house is gonna set shit off, put us on the map.”

A murmur of agreement. Even Abra gave a nod of approval.

Riot continued, “Because of that, I’m scaling back on the animal smuggling. Too many moving parts. Too many liabilities. No lie, it’s hard to market wine to millionaires and be the nigga selling snow leopards on the side. So I’m closing that chapter.”

Laughter. Light, easy. Everyone was vibing.

Except me.

I felt like I was watching a throne room from the back of the chapel. I’d shed blood for this family. Killed for this family. I had scars in places these people didn’t even know about. And yet here I was—again—on the sideline. No legacy. No crown. No say.

Riot glanced at me then, like he just remembered I existed.

“Havoc,” he said. “We need solid security at the open house. Big names’ll be there. Investors. Politicians. Influencers. We can’t afford a single slip. It’s yours. You’re head of security for the event. From now until the last champagne glass is packed up, it’s your show.”

All eyes turned to me. Waiting. Expecting thanks or some humble-ass nod of approval.

I gave neither.

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