"They won't. Not by me." I meet her eyes. "Patterson isn't innocent. He helped kill women and children. He betrayed people under my protection. He deserves everything he's getting and more."
"You can't just decide that?—"
"In my world, I can. I do." I turn back to the window, watch the city blur past. "You wanted to know who I really am? This is it."
Silence falls between us, heavy and suffocating.
"I'm terrified of you," she whispers finally.
"Good. You should be."
"Not because of the violence." Her voice cracks. "Because you don't care. Because you can hurt someone and then come back to dinner like nothing happened."
"I care." The words surprise me. "Just not about Patterson or his pain or whether I'm justified. I care about results. About protecting the people I'm loyal to. About sending messages that keep everyone else in line."
"That's not caring. That's scheming."
"In my world, they're the same thing. And the people who live in my world operate the same way."
The car slows as we approach the gates of my estate. Bianca doesn't move, doesn't speak, just stares out her window like she's trying to escape without physically running.
"For what it's worth," I say as Tony parks, "I made sure his family is safe. His wife, his kids—they're untouchable. That's a rule I never break."
"How noble of you."
"It's not nobility. It's survival." I open my door. "Men who hurt families don't last long in this business. They become targets themselves. So I protect innocents because I'm smart enough to know where the line is."
She finally looks at me. "And where's the line with me?"
"You're safe. Always." I mean it. "I need you cooperative, not traumatized. And despite what you think, I don't enjoy hurting people who don't deserve it."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bianca
"Just the ones who do."
The words hang in the air between us, and I hate that they make sense. Hate even more that some traitorous part of me feels... what? Relief? Gratitude that he has rules, that women and children are off-limits, that he's not the kind of monster who hurts indiscriminately?
God, what's wrong with me?
This man just tortured someone in a storage closet. Cut his ear. Made him bleed while I sat at a table eating chocolate mousse and making small talk with his crying wife.
And now I'm sitting here feeling warm because he said I'msafe?
I'm losing my mind.
The car door opens—we've arrived at his estate without me even noticing—and Dante steps out, waiting for me to follow. I climb out on shaky legs, my heels clicking against the stone driveway.
Inside, the house feels even emptier than usual. Colder. Like it knows what happened tonight and disapproves.
Or maybe that's just me projecting.
"I'm going to bed," I announce, heading for the stairs.
"Good idea. It's late."
I make it three steps before his voice stops me.
