“…cannot wait for the morning,” a man was saying. “If Thorne is not here, we must vote to transfer the northern assets.”

“Thorne is dead,” another voice replied, cold and sharp. “Vancamp’s men confirmed the penthouse was cleared.”

Aries did not hesitate.

He kicked the door open.

The wood hit the plaster wall with a loud crack.

The six men sitting around the long mahogany table froze, their heads turning instantly toward the door.

At the head of the table sat a thin man with silver hair and a tailored charcoal coat—Marcus Vancamp.

His face turned the color of ashes when his eyes met Aries’s.

“You look surprised, Marcus,” Aries said, stepping into the room.

His voice was quiet, but it filled the space completely.

Killian stood at the door, his hand inside his coat, his eyes locked on the guards standing in the corners of the room.

The guards did not move; their eyes were on Aries.

“Aries,” one of the older council members said, rising slightly from his chair. “We were told there was an incident at your residence.”