Page 32 of Riot

I just said, “Copy.”

Inside?

I was already moving the pieces.

Finally.

Finally, they gave me something.

And now I was going to use it.

Let Riot and Creed keep their glass castles. Let them toast their overpriced vintages and pop bottles for investors who didn’t give a fuck about their bloodline. Let them soak in applause and pretend like their daddy wasn’t a rapist and a tyrant.

I’d make sure that vineyard went up in flames.

Not literally—yet.

But the open house? That was the first domino. And I’d already started planning who I’d bring into the fold to help me knock the whole damn empire down.

Let them crown each other Kings.

I was building the guillotine.

The meeting wrapped, folks peeled off—Abra muttering something to Creed about Dubai contacts, Riot dapping up one of the logistics heads, half the room buzzing about the damn vineyard like it was some sacred birthright.

I started to make my exit when I saw Riot cut across the room.

He moved like he always did—shoulders squared, grill gleaming like he owned sunlight itself. There was something about Riot that just commanded space, and I hated that it still worked on me, even after everything.

He stopped in front of me and crossed his arms, the tension still sitting just beneath the surface, like it never really left since the tailor shop.

“You got a second?” he asked.

I nodded.

He looked around, then gestured for me to follow. We stepped into one of the smaller conference rooms—a glass box meant for quick strategy talks and quiet power plays. He closed the door, leaned against the wall, and exhaled through his nose like he was dragging the weight of our bloodline up from his ribs.

“I ain’t gonna lie,” Riot said, his voice lower now. “I shouldn’t have hit you like that.”

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He shrugged. “My temper gets the best of me sometimes. You know that. But when you came for Ma like that…” His eyes narrowed, a warning flickering behind them. “You crossed a line.”

I stared back, face unreadable.

“She ain’t perfect, but she’s been nothin’ but good to you. She took care of you. She made sure you were always fed, always had clothes on your back. She didn’t have to do that shit, but she did. You may not see it that way, but I do.”

His words cut, not because they were true—but because they were a reminder.

A reminder of how easy it was for him to rewrite history.

To pretend the love I got was the same as his. That Tessa hugging me once in public erased the years she wouldn’t even look at me when no one was around. That a few bags of hand-me-downs meant I waschosen.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I want us to do better, man. Pops is dead. Silas is gone. The most toxic shit in this family has been buried. But we can’t move forward if we keep tearing into each other.”

I nodded once. “You’re right.”

He gave a short nod of his own, like we just closed a deal. “So, let’s keep it clean from here on out. Disagree? Fine. But don’t ever speak on Ma like that again.”

---