Ambrosia

**Lyra**

**Present Day**

"I am not going to sugarcoat this for you, Lyra. We do not believe you are the right fit for this role. This is an extremely competitive position, and we simply have candidates with far more specialized experience. And, frankly, prettier faces," the hiring manager states, her lips pulling into a condescending smirk.

Right. That is rich coming from a woman squeezed into a suffocating black pencil skirt, her white silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to parade her rock-hard, fake breasts spilling out of a mismatched black push-up bra. Her hair is a stiff, over-sprayed disaster of fizz. You could strike a match near her head and generate enough power to light up the city grid for a solid week. It looks like a bird abandoned it after using it as a personal toilet. She wears layers of thick foundation and dramatic contouring, looking like she got lost on her way to an audition for a drag show.

She reeks of desperation, practically begging for the attention of the male executives on this floor.

"Okay," I say, injecting a heavy dose of dramatic flair into my tone. "Thank you for your time."

I turn on my heel and march out of the freezing conference room, keeping my chin tilted high. Who needs to waste their life inside this pretentious, glass-walled corporate prison anyway? Who wants to spend forty hours a week surrounded by plastic, wannabe Barbie dolls and arrogant, spoiled trust-fund men?

Oh, wait. I do.

I need the salary. I need the resume builder. I need the chance to work normal, human hours behind a desk instead of destroying my feet in a hot kitchen. But how in the world are you supposed to gain specialized experience if no one gives you a foot in the door? Corporate companies always demand fresh, energetic twenty-somethings who somehow possess thirty years of specific, niche industry experience. It makes zero sense. No one wants to invest time in training anyone anymore. They just complain about their massive turnover rates without realizing they command zero loyalty from their overworked staff.

I reach the heavy brass elevator doors and hit the down arrow, waiting for the metal box to open, swallow me whole, and spit me back out onto the ground floor of reality.

Down the hall, the main reception phone rings in a shrill, repeating loop. The prissy blonde girl sitting behind the sleek marble desk ignores it, opting instead to openly flirt with a man in a tailored suit reviewing documents at the counter. Her obnoxious, high-pitched giggles echo down the corridor. The squeal makes my shoulders tense, but I just roll my eyes and stare at the intricate, expensive mahogany panels lining the walls outside the elevator bank.

So long, losers. Who needs Vance Enterprises? And who does this elusive "Enzo Vance" guy think he is, running a company like this? He does not know what he is missing.

*Ding.*

The chime saves me from spiraling further into my bitter internal rant. The brass doors slide open. I step inside the sleek, black-mirrored interior and press the lobby button. Quiet, tinkling piano music fills the silence, mocking my foul mood as I begin the long descent from the eighty-second floor.

The doors finally part at the ground level. I step out into the bustling, cavernous lobby, veering left toward the security desk. I hand my temporary visitor badge to the massive guard stationed behind the glass barrier, murmuring a polite thanks with a tight, forced smile.

As I push through the heavy revolving doors and step out onto the busy city pavement, a rapid buzzing vibrates against my right arm. The aggressive buzzing comes from inside my dark purple Prada handbag. This bag is the single most expensive item I own. I bought it as a present to myself for my twentieth birthday. I survived on four hours of sleep a night, pulling back-to-back double shifts at the restaurant for four straight months just to afford it. It is my prized possession, and I treat it like royalty.

*Buzz. Buzz.*

Ugh, what now? I dig into the leather depths and pull out my phone, the baby-pink rhinestone case glinting in the afternoon sun. I tap the screen. Nine unread text messages. All from Nicolette. I let out a long sigh and start reading the rapid-fire texts as I walk down the crowded sidewalk. This girl is my best friend, but she has the attention span of a hyperactive squirrel.

*Nicolette: yo gurl where u at?*

*Nicolette: hows Barbie town??? Spot any ken dolls u want to take home & play with?*

*Nicolette: u got the job?*

*Nicolette: helloooooooo*

*Nicolette: ima goin potty. Call me im bored*

*Nicolette: letz me know how it went*

*Nicolette: letz go to da club dis wknd. I want to PARTAY*

*Nicolette: c u after work*

I am busy typing out a sarcastic reply about Barbie town when my face slams into a solid brick wall.

"Oof!" The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. My phone nearly slips from my fingers. I stumble back, rubbing my stinging nose. Did they put up a pillar in the middle of the sidewalk?

I blink and shake my head, realizing the immovable brick wall is not a structure. It is a man. A massive, towering man.

I quickly lift my head, straining my neck back to take him in. Standing at a ridiculous five-foot-three, I feel like an ant staring up at a skyscraper.

"I-I'm sorry, s-sir," I stutter, my voice wavering.

Sweet, merciful heavens. How can the universe be so cruel to craft a man who looks like walking, breathing ambrosia? He is not just a man. He is a god carved from marble and sinew. My feet root to the concrete. I cannot move a single muscle. Am I still breathing? I must be, because my pulse is hammering a frantic rhythm against my throat.

He stares down at me with piercing hazel eyes, the color of warmed brown sugar and melted butter. If I drop dead right here on the pavement, let this man be the angel who escorts me to the afterlife. Sharp, aristocratic cheekbones cut across a clean-shaven jawline. He has a straight, aristocratic nose and plump, pink lips that look dangerously kissable. His luscious, thick auburn hair features a simple, professional cut with just enough length on top to make my fingers itch to run through the strands. He stands easily at six-foot-three, poured into a perfectly fitted blue Armani suit paired with a gold silk tie. The expensive fabric stretches over broad, bulging shoulders and a thick, muscular chest.

Yummy.

Wait, what is wrong with my brain? Stop drooling, Lyra. Get it together.

"No problem, sweetheart," the man says. A slow, sly smile curves the corner of his beautiful mouth.

Good lord, that voice. The sound wraps around me, a smooth, deep, rumbling velvet that caresses my bare skin and sends a sharp, heavy throb straight to my core. I squeeze my thighs together, feeling a sudden rush of wetness pool in my panties.

He is so far out of your league, Lyra, he exists in a different stratosphere.

"Um, okay. Not your sweetheart, but yeah... sorry again," I mumble, desperate to salvage some shred of my dignity.

I quickly side-step his massive frame, ducking my head. I grab a loose strand of hair that fell in my face and tuck it firmly behind my ear, praying he cannot see the furious, burning blush staining my cheeks. The heat travels rapidly down my neck and blooms across my chest.

I need to get out of here. I have about an hour before I need to clock in for my shift at the restaurant. Back to the kitchen. Back to the grueling real world. Damn it.

——————————

**Enzo**

"Where is my money?" Dante asks in a low, deadpan tone.

He stares at the filthy, bloodied rat hanging by his wrists from the rusted chains in the center of the warehouse. One rule everyone in our world learns quickly: when Dante Vance is calm, you should fear him the most. He is a ruthless, sadistic monster when crossed. He is also my best friend, the man who tolerates zero nonsense from anyone breathing.

It has always been the four of us. Dante, Gideon, Ro, and me. We grew up on the same gritty streets, shared our meals, and bled together. In school, Dante claimed the role of leader early on. He shielded us from becoming permanent punching bags for the older, bigger kids, forcing us to study, forcing us to train. Once we hit our growth spurts, we bulked up. We spent hours learning how to throw a proper punch, how to break bones, how to fight as a synchronized unit. We evolved from the hunted to the apex predators.

We are brothers, bound not by genetics, but by the gallons of blood we have spilled over the years. I love these men. I would take a bullet for any of them without a second thought.

Together, we forged an empire from dirt. Dante operates as the mastermind, calculating moves ten steps ahead. Gideon rules the digital realm, our resident tech and surveillance genius who can hack into international defense systems before breakfast. Ro is our lethal weapon, a trained, remorseless assassin with a sick, twisted sense of humor that I find hilarious.

Dante and I started small, pushing product in high school hallways. We scaled up fast, leveraging the infamous ties of Dante’s family. But the old man refused to just hand Dante the keys to the kingdom. He forced Dante to carve his own path, to earn his fear and respect in the underworld. We all had to earn our place. We clawed our way to the summit, leaving a trail of bodies in our wake. Now, we sit on the throne. We are untouchable. We own contacts and politicians in every major country on the globe. Our name breeds terror.

While Dante focuses his energy on managing the brutal operations of the Mafia, I built Vance Enterprises from the ground up. The pristine corporate skyscraper serves as the perfect, legitimate front to launder our massive rivers of illicit cash. We own a sprawling network of luxury hotels, five-star restaurants, exclusive underground clubs, and commercial real estate spanning continents. We share the wealth. We share the properties. We share the power.

We even share our women. We always have.

Dante gives a barely perceptible nod to Slade, our hulking, resident torturer.

Slade steps forward and shoves the sparking tip of the cattle prod directly into Tate’s balls.

*ZAAAAAP!*

A raw, guttural scream rips from Tate's throat, echoing off the damp, dirty concrete walls of the dimly lit room. The traitor thrashes against the heavy chains, his pathetic whimpers filling the brief silence. Tears carve clean tracks through the thick layers of grime and blood coating his face.

"Where. Is. My. Money?" Dante repeats, enunciating every single syllable with a dark promise of impending agony.

Tate cowers, his broken body trembling violently. His right eye is swollen shut, a grotesque shade of purple and black. His clothes hang off him in tattered, crimson-soaked ribbons. He hangs at an odd, unnatural angle, his left shoulder clearly dislocated. He is missing three fingers on his right hand, the severed digits currently resting in a pool of his own blood near the tips of his boots. He is missing several teeth. His torso is covered in deep, weeping burn marks from two hours of methodical beatings and high-voltage shocks. His body is rapidly shutting down.

"P-p-please, boss," Tate stutters, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. "I-I-I h-h-had n-no ch-ch-choice. T-th-they would h-have k-killed y-you a-and m-m-my family."

Ha. Kill us? That is genuinely hilarious.

I let out a low scoff. From my position leaning against the cold metal support beam, I watch Dante shake his head slightly, a dark, mocking smile touching his lips. He is thinking the exact same thing. In the shadowed back corner near the metal staircase, Gideon and Ro exchange a look and chuckle quietly.

"Is that so?" Dante asks softly. He lets the silence stretch, mastering the art of dramatic tension. "You mean... this family?"

Dante snaps his fingers.

The heavy metal door at the back of the warehouse screeches open. Three armed guards march inside, dragging a middle-aged woman and two teenage boys across the concrete. Their wrists are bound tight with thick plastic zip ties, dirty cloth gags shoved deep into their mouths. They thrash and kick, but their struggles are pathetic against the sheer size of our men. The guards hurl them roughly onto the floor, right at Tate’s dangling, bloody feet. They land just inside the harsh, yellow pool of light cast by the single swinging bulb overhead.

Tate erupts into a frantic, thrashing panic. He screams around his missing teeth, begging us to spare them. The muffled, hysterical shrieks of his wife pierce the damp air as she looks up and sees the mutilated, ruined shell of her husband hanging above her. Black mascara runs down her pale, terrified face in thick rivers. The two teenage sons keep their heads bowed, trembling in sheer terror and shame.

Dante slowly sinks into a wooden chair, spreading his legs, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest. His dark, dominant aura suffocates the room.

"You made a grave mistake, Tate. You ran your mouth to that Russian scum about my shipping route and cost me eight million dollars. You claim to have done it to protect your family from them." Dante leans forward, his eyes dead and cold. "But it is us you should have protected your family against."

Tate sobs, choking on his own spit as he pleads for mercy. Slade steps up and shoves a filthy rag into Tate’s mouth, silencing the noise.

"Enzo," Dante calls out without looking away from the weeping woman.

"Yeah," I answer, pushing off the support beam.

"What should we do with these idiots?"

I rub my jaw, analyzing the sobbing mess on the floor. "The boys look sturdy enough. With the right amount of breaking and proper training, they could become valuable assets to the foot soldier ranks. What are they, sixteen, seventeen? We strip them down, train them as guards. Corrupt them early. The woman can prove useful too. Ship her off to one of the remote houses to service the men and work off her husband's massive debt, or stick her in one of the underground clubs."

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check the secure message from my assistant. Ugh.

"D, I have to head out. I have a meeting at the corporate office in twenty. Those Hofmann rats are trying to pressure us into sponsoring another one of their shady construction projects."

Dante hums, a low, displeased sound in his throat. "I should have put a bullet in Tarik the first time we met. Sadly, their zoning permits work out in our favor, so we need to play nice. We need their infrastructure for the upcoming Eastern shipment. Go handle it. Putting on a suit and playing nice is your cup of tea."

Dante turns his head toward the shadows. "Gideon. Call Garrick. Have his team retrieve these hooligans and set up the initiation training. Make sure they learn exactly who owns them now." He gestures vaguely to the sobbing mother and sons on the floor.

Without blinking, Dante smoothly pulls his heavy pistol from the holster at the small of his back, levels it at Tate, and fires a single round straight between the traitor's eyes.

The loud crack echoes through the warehouse. Tate’s body goes limp, dead weight straining against the chains. The wife screams against her gag, thrashing violently.

Dante stands, ignoring the fresh blood splattered across the floor, and points to the guards. "Feed the body to the fish. Scrub this floor."

Dante and I walk out of the brutal execution room, Gideon and Ro following closely on our heels. We head upstairs into the soundproofed, luxury office overlooking the warehouse floor. Dante bypasses his desk, walking straight to the crystal liquor cabinet. He pours two fingers of expensive scotch into a heavy glass and downs it.

"Chloe has been blowing up my phone all morning," Ro says, his tone flat and bored as he drops onto the leather sofa. "I thought we dumped that woman. She was an easy lay, but she talks too much. I don't like her."

"Yeah. You're right. She's annoying," Gideon agrees, tapping away on his tablet.

"Handle it, Ro. Make sure she understands her time with us is permanently over," Dante commands, pouring another glass.

"Ugh. I just wish we could find the one, you know?" Ro groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm sick and tired of all these fake, plastic women throwing themselves at us. They either want to bang us so they can brag to their friends, or they just want access to our bank accounts. It is boring. I want a real challenge. I want our forever princess."

We all nod in silent agreement. Finding a woman strong enough to handle all four of us, pure enough to capture our dark attention, yet fiery enough to keep us entertained, feels like an impossible task.

"I need to hit the road. I'll see you boys at the estate tonight," I say, checking the time on my phone.

I grab my tailored suit blazer off the back of the green leather chair, slide it on, and head down to the private garage. I climb into the back of my waiting luxury town car. The driver pulls out, leaving the dense, isolated woods behind. The rough country roads quickly smooth out into paved highways, and the towering glass skyline of downtown begins inching closer on the horizon.

I spend the ride answering emails and reading over contracts. I fire off a quick message to my assistant, ensuring the Hofmann files are prepped and waiting in the main conference room.

The car glides to a smooth stop at the curb. The driver opens my door. I step out onto the busy pavement, buttoning my jacket as I look up at the massive Vance Enterprises skyscraper. It is just one of the many monuments to our power in this city.

I start walking toward the grand entrance, my mind focused on the upcoming negotiation. Suddenly, I spot a petite brunette walking directly toward me. Her head is bowed, her eyes glued to the glowing screen of her phone. She is not paying attention to her surroundings at all.

Before I can even step out of her path, she collides straight into my chest with a soft thud.

"I-I'm sorry, s-sir," she stutters, her head still bowed.

That voice. The sound is sweet, breathless, and angelic. It hits my ears and travels straight downward. My cock twitches instantly inside my slacks. The soft, stuttering apology triggers a primal, dominant instinct deep in my chest. A natural submissive.

She finally lifts her head, and the breath vanishes from my lungs. Sweet gods of nectar. Standing before me is the most devastatingly beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on in my miserable life. Ambrosia in the flesh.

She is petite, barely reaching my chest, but her body is spectacular. She is thick and curvy in all the right places. I despise the starving, stick-thin models that usually throw themselves at my feet. We all prefer our women soft, full, and lush. More curves to grab. More flesh to bite.

Her large eyes are an intoxicating mix of hazel and green. The colors swirl together, dancing and sparkling under the afternoon sun. Thick, dark brown hair cascades down the middle of her back, catching the light to reveal hidden, fiery hints of red among the strands. She possesses the innocent, baby-soft face of an angel. A delicate nose, naturally plump, rosy cheeks, and plush, heart-shaped lips begging to be devoured. She wears minimal makeup, a stark, refreshing contrast to the thick plaster the women in our circles constantly hide behind.

Her full, heavy breasts press against the modest fabric of her blue V-neck blouse, offering a teasing glimpse of deep cleavage. Her milky skin looks incredibly soft. Her hips flare out in a delicious, rounded curve. My hands literally ache with the sudden, violent need to strip her bare right here on the sidewalk and map every inch of her body.

"No problem, sweetheart," I say, flashing her a smooth smile, trying to rein in the dark, predatory beast clawing at my ribs.

"Um, okay. Not your sweetheart, but yeah... sorry again," she fires back.

Her voice trembles, but the words hold a sharp edge of defiance. She is clearly flustered. She quickly side-steps my body to escape. As she moves, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, giving me a perfect view of the deep, crimson blush spreading across her cheeks.

Beautiful. Simply beautiful. And she has a spine. A little fire to match that angelic face. I stand frozen on the pavement, unable to look away as I watch the hypnotic sway of her round hips as she hurries down the busy street.

I will find you, angel. Yes, my little vixen, you will be seeing me again very, very soon. You have no idea what you just walked into. You are exactly what we have been hunting for.

Wait until I tell the guys.