The boy’s nostrils flare. He squares his shoulders, curls his hands into fists and breathes hard like he’s psyching himself into galloping down to the stage to teach me some respect.
I raise a brow, but he flops down to his seat.
At least now, every student in the small lecture theater is facing the front.
“I am Marius Segul, your new Professor of Finance and Accounting. Since this is an advanced class, it’s safe to assume that everyone here wishes to pursue a career in business.”
A few of the students chuckle.
“All enterprises, whether lawful or not, run for the financial benefit of their owners. Owners can take the shape of partners, shareholders, families. Even Tony Montana from Scarface ran a business.”
This generates more laughter, and some of the tension in the room eases.
I don’t usually begin first lectures with movie references, but Marina University is hardly a bastion of academic excellence. It’s a place where the next generation of crime lords may form bonds of friendship while completing their education. Most students here have already secured their futures.
Strolling across the stage, I fix my gaze on the eager students in front who hang onto my every word.
“The management of money might seem unglamorous or even tedious, but it’s the lifeblood of all commerce.” I count off my points on my fingers. “What’s the use of defending a territory from rival gangs if your bookkeeper can siphon millions without your notice? Why venture into high-risk deals that fail to generate a positive return on investment?”
A young man with a short afro raises his hand. “Professor Segul?”
“And you are?”
“Femi,” he replies and straightens in his seat. “Femi Olorun.”
Of course he is. I’ve been out of his life for ten years, but even I can’t ignore the faint scar on his right cheekbone. It’s not tribal, but territorial. Shango is the kind of egotist who marks all his potential heirs.
“Your question?” I ask.
“What’s your background, sir?”
“The London School of Finance,” I reply, cracking my first grin.
He shakes his head. “No, I mean—”
“Look it up for yourself.” My smile widens.
Crius might be my birth father, but he sure as shit didn’t marry my mother. Hell, she and I are still his dirty little secrets.
Femi sits back in his seat, his features tight with frustration, and I return my attention to the students at the back. “Without a sound foundation in finance you may as well stick your money in government bonds and cry when inflation erodes your—”
My gaze catches the huge, gray eyes of the woman who has haunted my weekend. She stares back at me, her plump lips forming a perfect O.
Every hackle on the back of my neck rises, and my nostrils flare.
I knew Phoenix had been hiding something from me, but not this.
She played me.
Played me like her willing toy.
The little minx knew. Knew exactly what she was doing when she sashayed into that store dressed like she was about to hit me with her bible. Knew the exact words to pique my attention. Knew the exact way to make me salivate for more.
Fuck.
Like a fool led by his dick, I didn’t just fall—I jumped into her sweet honey trap.
If I didn’t want to kill Crius, I would tell him that his enemies have already worked out our familial connection and sent a spy who knows my weakness for submissives.