I grab my phone and start firing off messages to my brothers, and finally to Anthony, the head of security.
Find him. Now. I don’t care how. I want a location before sunrise.
The time for playing by the rules is over. He wants to play dirty? He’ll learn exactly how dirty Lucien Moretti can be.
Earlier, when the doctor injected a second dose of lidocaine into Briar’s lip, she flinched, tears sliding down her cheeks despite how hard she tried to hold herself still. I stood there watching, feeling every one of those tears carve another line of rage into my bones. Seeing her cry was like watching someone carve pieces out of my ribcage with a serrated blade.
My determination to kill the bastard who did this to her tripled. There isn’t a law, a judge, or a goddamned moral code on this earth that could stop me now. Anthony is currently coordinating with the police, pushing them to locate Matteo. That’s the official story. The legal route. The one I promised Briar.
But so far, Matteo has been elusive, like smoke, slipping between fingers. The fact he managed to get close to her today—close enough to lay his hands on her again—means he’s been watching. Tracking her like she’s some goddamn animal he wants to slay.
Maybe the café was an old favorite from before she escaped their marriage. Maybe he guessed and got lucky. Maybe he had eyes in the crowd. It doesn’t matter.
He took a chance. He won’t get another.
The doctor helped Briar stand earlier, hovering over her like she was glass about to shatter. After securing the butterfly bandage and checking her pupils again, he gave her instructions, gently speaking as if his voice might break her further.
“She’ll heal,” he said quietly as he came to stand beside me. “She shouldn’t scar. But she’s very fragile right now. She’s had a terrible shock.”
Fragile. The word made my stomach turn.
“I think this assault should be reported,” he continued. “There needs to be a record. A restraining order, at minimum.”
“I understand,” I say, the lie smooth and cold. There will be no police report. No restraining order. No courtroom. I will deliver the only judgment that matters. And Matteo Romero won’t be breathing long enough to appeal.
The doctor handed me pain medication. “She may have tooth pain. The door struck her mouth—she might have bruising on the gums. If she complains, get X-rays.”
“I will,” I say, walking him to the elevator and thanking him. He pressed my arm with a sadness I didn’t ask for, and I watched the doors close, swallowing down the fury boiling in my blood. The moment he was gone, my phone buzzed—Franco and Mace arriving downstairs, wanting to know what the emergency is.
But before they entered, I heard Briar cry out softly from the bathroom, a broken sound choking past the running water, and everything inside me snapped like bone under pressure.
I can’t do this the legal way. I can’t pretend civility in the face of this. I can’t let him breathe another fucking day.
The elevator opened and Franco and Mace stepped into the loft, faces grim. “What happened? We heard Briar was assaulted,” Franco stated.
“She was,” I say, voice flat as concrete. “She and Stacy were getting lunch after shopping for The Met charity gala. Matteo found her. Put his hands on her again.”
Silence fell like a hammer.
Mace swore under his breath. “How the hell did he get past security?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. I already know what matters. He touched her. That is the only detail I need. “We need to find him and we end him.”
They nodded, no hesitation.
“Double security here,” I say. “Full perimeter. Nobody gets close. I want every camera feed on every entrance. As for Romero, if he leaves this city, I want to know which highway he breathes on. I want him brought to me on the quiet. No one must know. Now go.”
They left immediately, the lift door shutting behind them like the seal of a tomb.
I remain still, staring at the hallway leading to the bathroom. The shower is running. Voices murmur—Stacy’s quiet whispers, Briar’s broken sobs.
I should have protected her. I promised her she was safe. She trusted me. And I failed her.
I move toward the bedroom doorway, just far enough that I can see the open bathroom door. Stacy is helping Briar wash her bloodstained chest, guiding her gently through her shower. Briar sits on the small built-in ledge, letting the warm water run over her hair, her shoulders, her face.
Her bandage is soaked now, the edges bleeding through. Bruises are already blooming along her jaw and the side of her neck—finger-shaped, purple and rising beneath the skin.
I grip the doorframe so hard the wood creaks.
