I’m not letting Matteo Romero take one more thing. Not from her. Not from me. Not from anyone under my care.
ELEVEN
LUCIEN
The warehouse smellslike damp concrete, rust, and old oil — the kind of place where ghosts linger and men like me make more of them. A single bulb swings overhead, its pale light cutting a hard circle into the dark. Shadows sprawl across the walls as Anthony and Franco drag Carlo Venti toward me and drop him into a metal chair. His protests only for us to hear.
His wrists are bound tight behind the back of the chair, ankles strapped to the legs. Sweat beads along his forehead, but he still tries for defiance, chin lifted, jaw set.
I step out of the shadows slowly, deliberate. Let him watch me come.
His gaze snaps up. His breath stutters before he hides it behind a crooked grin. “Lucien.”
I don’t answer. Just crouch until we’re eye level, resting my forearms loosely on my knees. Silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. He shifts against the ropes as if he knows what’s in store for him. “You put your hands on her.” My voice comes out low, almost calm, and it cuts through the quiet like a blade. “Tell me you regret that.”
Carlo smirks, though a muscle at his temple ticks. “Matteo said she needed reminding of who she belongs to.”
A breath escapes me — annoyed and sharp. “Reminding her?” I tilt my head, voice flat. “That she once wore his ring? That his name sat on paper beside hers?” I lean in just enough for him to feel my breath. “She doesn’t wear it now.”
Carlo’s throat bobs as he swallows, but his tone stays steady. “Doesn’t matter. Romero said she was his, always will be.”
That earns him a long, slow silence. I straighten, rolling my cuffs up past my elbows with methodical precision. My hand lifts, palm open. Anthony presses the folding knife into it without hesitation. The weight settles into my grip, cold, solid, perfect.
Like being reunited with an old lover.
Carlo’s smirk fades.
The blade clicks open with a sharp snap, the sound slicing through the stillness. I let it hang there a beat before resting the flat edge against his cheek, just enough pressure to make his breath hitch. “Do you know what happens to men who touch what’s mine?” My tone is soft, deliberate, dangerous in ways shouting could never be. “Or have you forgotten what I’m capable of? I know it’s been a few years. People forget.” I shrug. I will seek retribution for the pain Briar suffered, whether she is in truth mine or not. She works for me, she’s under my care, I will protect her, but even I know that’s not entirely what I meant by those words.
I want her to be mine in all ways.
He stares, tight-lipped, sweat rolling down his temple.
“That’s right,” I murmur, pressing the blade harder until a thin line of red beads along his skin and slides down his jaw. “You have forgotten. I cannot blame you, it has been some time since I’ve had to take such steps, but you’re about to get a refresher.”
Carlo hisses, trying not to flinch as I press the blade deeper. That cut will need stitches.
“You work for Romero now,” I continue, dragging the tip of the blade down the column of his throat without cutting, just enough for him to feel how easy it would be. “Tell me why he sent you to her apartment. What’s the play?”
“I don’t ask questions.” His voice cracks despite the bravado he’s clinging to. “I do what I’m told.”
“That’s your first mistake,” I whisper, leaning close enough for my words to scrape against his nerves. “Acting like a little bitch. Obedience without understanding gets men buried.”
The knife shifts in my hand, spinning easily between my fingers before I drive it down, hard, into the armrest of the chair — an inch from his thigh. Carlo jerks, breath catching in his throat.
“You think Romero’s going to protect you when this goes sideways?” I rest my hand casually over the knife handle. “You’re expendable, Carlo. A pawn he’ll feed to me if it keeps his empire intact.” I shrug. “What’s left of it in any case.”
He breathes hard through his nose, knuckles straining against the ropes behind his back. “I don’t know nothing.”
Anthony steps closer, folding his arms, his shadow falling over Carlo like a cloak. “Talk,” he says quietly. “While you still have your tongue.”
Carlo spits on the floor, blood mixing with saliva. “The Moretti name doesn’t have the fear associated with it as it once did,” he mutters, though his voice wavers. “Your family have gone soft and it’ll be your downfall.”
A laugh leaves me, low and humorless. My fist slams into Carlo’s stomach several times, leaving him gasping for air. The bruises will easily match those on Briar’s abdomen and that’ll suit me just fine. I rest my hand on Carlo’s shoulder, all nonchalance, even if I want to kill the bastard.
“Romero’s wrong,” I state. “My family hasn’t gone soft. We’ve become ghosts.” I grip his jaw and force him to meet my eyes. “But this ghoul will live tonight. Push me or come near Miss Locke again and see how that works out for you.”
I rip the knife from the chair and let the motion graze across the front of his shirt, carving a shallow M that blooms red. Just enough to mark him.
