Victor Castellan was not a patient man. He had built his empire on control. On knowing exactly how far he could push before people broke. On knowing how to make his threats stick so thoroughly, so completely, that most people never even considered crossing him. 

Beckett should have been one of them. He should have taken the hint. But instead, the stubborn little omega had dug his heels in, clawing his way back up like some rabid animal who didn't know when to stay down. And now? Now Victor was trapped under the weight of an investigation that refused to die. 

He stood in his office, staring out over the city skyline, his grip tight around the glass of burbon in his hand. The ice rattled from the force of it, but he barely noticed. 

"Tell me again," he said, voice deceptively calm. 

The man standing across from him; one of his more competent enforcers, shifted uneasily. "Price is putting pressure on your distributors. A few of them are considering cutting ties." 

"And our inside people?" 

"They're keeping us ahead, but barely," the enforcer exhaled, "Sir, it's bad. They've got video. Witnesses. It's not just a case of vandalism anymore. They're treating it like attempted murder." 

Victor knew that already. It was why he hadn't retaliated the way he wanted to. He wanted, so very desperately, to remind Beckett who he was dealing with. To make him suffer for daring to push back. But doing that now, with the police already breathing down his neck, that would be stupid. 

The panther alpha was many things, but he was not stupid. He exhaled slowly, swirling the drink, letting the silence stretch. 

The enforcer shifted again, waiting. 

Finally, Victor turned, his golden eyes cold and calculating, "If I can't eliminate the problem, then I'll have to redirect it." 

"What do you need, sir?" the enforcer nodded. 

Victor's smirk was slow, razor-sharp.

"Beckett wants to rebuild," he took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn, "Let's see how difficult we can make that for him." 

Not a man who acted out of blind rage, Victor found rage useful; but only when sharpened into something precise. Something lethal, and right now, he was sharpening the knife. Beckett was trying to rebuild. Trying to dig himself out of the hole Victor had shoved him into. The stubborn little bastard actually thought he could win. 

Victor smiled, slow and cruel, as he gave his orders. 

"The Den is nothing without its vendors," he said, his men listened in silence, "So let's make sure those vendors start reconsidering their contracts." 

By the next morning, three of Beckett's potential suppliers had suddenly backed out of negotiations. One cited "unforeseen complications." Another doubled their rates without explanation. The third simply stopped returning calls. 

Victor leaned back in his chair, satisfied. It was subtle. Undeniable and best of all -- completely legal. He wasn't attacking Beckett directly, he was making sure the world around him collapsed. 

Next Victor turned his attention to permits. Beckett needed approval to start the real renovations. Construction crews, electrical work, health inspections. 

Victor made sure those never went through. Paperwork was lost, calls were redirected. Hell, one inspector took a sudden and unfortunate vacation, delaying approval for another three weeks. Beckett would be stuck in limbo; watching his club rot, while red tape strangled the life out of his plans. 

Victor smiled at the thought. Picturing his hands around the omega's throat, wanting nothing more than to snuff out what was left of that spark. 

Finally, he leaned in close to his most trusted enforcer. 

"Keep an eye on him," Victor said, "Make sure he feels the weight of this. Not enough to push him straight to the cops; but enough to remind him who's really in control." 

His enforcer nodded, "You want him scared?"

Victor chuckled, "No," he said, "I want him exhausted." 

Fear made people reckless, it made them fight. But exhaustion? Exhaustion made people desperate and desperate men made mistakes. 

====

Beckett was used to things going wrong. Running a business meant dealing with setbacks, with delays, with people who thought they could screw him over and get away with it. But this was different. He sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, staring down at yet another bullshit email from one of the construction companies. 

Unfortunately, due to unforeseen scheduling conflicts, we will be unable to take on your project at this time. Beckett scowled, tossing the phone onto the table with more force than necessary. His tail puffed and swaying behind him, irritation churning in his gut. This was the third contractor to drop out, and it wasn't just them. 

His suppliers were backing out. Calls weren't being returned. Permits were getting delayed for reasons that didn't make sense. One or two setbacks? That was business. But this?

Beckett leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, as he rested his forehead in his arms.He didn't have proof yet, but he knew exactly who was behind this. The bastard was making sure that even if The Den wasn't burned to the ground, it would never reopen. 

His fingers curled into his hair. 

It was working. The exhaustion was creeping in, threading through his bones, making his head ache. Every time he made a move forward, something pushed him two steps back. Beckett scowled, pushing back from the table and standing. He started pacing the small space, no doubt starting to ware a path in the floor. 

He hated feeling trapped. Hated that Victor Castellan; a man who should have been nothing more than an old name in the city's underground, was still finding ways to pull strings in his life. This wasn't just about rebuilding anymore, this was a war of attrition; and Beckett was running out of time. 

Rubbing his temples, he needed to figure this out. He needed a new plan, he needed -- 

The front door opened. 

Gabriel.

Beckett didn't have to look to know it was him. He started recognizing that warm scent, motor oil, leather, and something else. The tension in his shoulders twisted but eased just a fraction. 

The alpha appeared in the kitchen, he was holding a bag of groceries. Not saying a word, he started putting items away while keeping out ingrediants for the evening's meal. It was fried rice again....was that all the alpha knew how to make?