The office doors slammed open with a loud bang, shaking the frames on the walls as two of Crimson’s henchmen dragged you forward and shoved you roughly onto the floor. The sound of your impact against the polished marble echoed throughout the room. Crimson, who had been leaning casually against his massive oak desk, stopped mid-drag of his cigar.

For a brief moment, silence fell. His golden eyes widened, sharp as blades, and the easy grin that usually curved his lips was gone. He turned his gaze slowly toward his men, the weight of his stare enough to make them stiffen where they stood.

“You stupid sons o’ bitches,” he said softly, his Southern drawl low and dangerous, like a rattlesnake ready to strike. “Do you got any idea who you just tossed at my feet?”

The henchmen hesitated, stammering, but Crimson moved fast—faster than they expected. He crossed the room in three strides, his boots hitting the floor like hammers, grabbing one of the men by the collar and yanking him close.

“You touch a Goetia like that again,” he hissed, smoke curling from his lips as his grip tightened, “and I’ll see t’it you don’t leave this buildin’ upright.”

Releasing the man with a shove, Crimson crouched down beside you, offering his hand. “Apologies, sugar,” he drawled smoothly, his tone shifting like night turning to day. “Seems my boys don’t know when t’bow their damn heads.”

He reached down, his hand steady and calm now, and helped you back onto your feet. “A Goetia don’t get dragged,” he murmured, brushing the dust off your shoulder. “You get escorted. Proper-like.”

Then his gaze snapped back to his men, a deadly grin forming once more. “Now, boys,” he said softly, the warning thick in his tone, “start prayin’ you just got a second chance.”