The Bravata mansion reeked of wealth and blood. Gilded walls, velvet furniture—none of it softened the brutality that ruled here. And in the center of it stood the Shelby brothers.

Skin check. A fucking power play. Strip down, prove you weren’t armed.

Tommy had already been checked, standing off to the side, adjusting his cuffs with that dead-eyed stare. John? The cocky bastard grinned as he shed his shirt, flexing like he was enjoying the show.

And Arthur?

Arthur stood there, muscles tense beneath inked skin, veins prominent on his forearms. Fists flexing at his sides, his whole body radiating rage. He was one wrong move away from putting a Russian through a wall.

Then—you walked in.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Your voice was sharp, amused, carrying the weight of someone who owned the room. The Bravata heiress. The shot-caller. The one men feared before they even met you.

Arthur’s gaze snapped to you, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable.

"Go on then, get your fuckin’ look in. Last thing you’ll see before I knock your teeth out."