My mind races with ideas as we continue brainstorming. Marketing campaigns, photo shoots, pop-up shops. Each new concept adds to the momentum building inside me.
With Devon's artistry and my business savvy, I know we can build this into something amazing. Something that impacts lives, inspires confidence, sparks change. The possibilities feel endless.
There's a synergy in the room that wasn't there before. By including the guys and getting their buy-in, they now feel invested in seeing this succeed.
"We'll leave you ladies to it then," says Slade, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "But we expect VIP access to this...babe empire."
"Oh my god, please stop calling it that," Devon rolls her eyes in exasperation. "Or we'll start referring to your operations as the 'big boys club'."
As we wrap up and the guys file out, laughing, Devon and I share a determined look. The future is ours for the taking, one step at a time.
I run my fingertips over the desk's smooth surface. "You know, I was thinking we could convert one of the spare rooms upstairs into a proper design studio for you. Natural light, space to pin up inspirations..."
Devon looks up, eyes wide. "Seriously? That would be amazing. I love sharing this space with you but it is starting to get a little cramped."
"Of course," I say softly. "We're partners. Your dreams are my dreams now."
She reaches across the desk, squeezing my hand gently. Our eyes meet in a moment of silent understanding.
The men may tease and doubt and think of this as our funny little cottage business, but we have each other. And together, we are unstoppable. Our empire, built by women, for women.
The click of my boots echoes down the empty corridor as I step out of the meeting room. Devon trails behind me, her brows knitted together,lost in thought.
The weight of allying with Aria still sits heavy in my gut, and while being in the office offered a brief reprieve, it’s hard to stop thinking about the huge, dangerous challenge before us.
Still, with Devon and the guys by my side, it’s the best shot we have.
Chapter eleven
The scent of blood permeates the dank basement air as I descend the creaking steps.
Brick's hulking frame is silhouetted against the dim light, his muscular arms flexing as he works. The wet smack of flesh impacting flesh echoes off the cold concrete walls.
My pulse quickens at the visceral display before me. This nameless fool dared to cross the Brixtons and now pays the price. I yearn to join in the savage dance, to feel the slick warmth of blood on my knuckles. But this is Brick's stage tonight.
Brick pauses, his chest heaving, to admire his tools lined up neatly on the scarred wooden table. He selects a short, serrated blade, the overhead light glinting off its eager edge.
A low groan escapes the bloodied mess of a man bound to the chair.
Brick grins, all white teeth and roiling menace. He goes to work with renewed fervor, and the basement rings with agonized screams.
I ache to participate, to unleash the feral rage that simmers within. But I merely observe for now, bearing witness to Brick's gruesome artistry. This fool’s torment has only just begun.
Brick pauses, breathing heavily as he admires his handiwork.
The man in the chair is now barely recognizable, his face a pulpy mass of torn flesh and broken teeth.
"Want to join in on the fun?" Brick asks, turning to me with a savage grin. His hands are slick with blood, droplets speckling his white tank top. "I needed to do something to relieve the tension after that meeting. This just feels right."
My heart pounds with anticipation. I've watched Brick ply his trade countless times, but rarely does he offer to share his toys. This is a gift I won't refuse.
I approach the sobbing, shuddering wreck of a man. His pleading eyes meet mine, wide with pain and terror. I bare my teeth in a smile. Slowly, deliberately, I pick up a pair of pliers from the instrument table. The cool metal calms my raging bloodlust.
With Brick observing approvingly behind me, I set to work.
The man's muffled wails rise in pitch as I apply the pliers with surgical precision.
Brick chuckles, a deep rumble from his broad chest.