“The evidence?”
“What evidence? I know how to handle this kind of business, my friends,” I reply, jaw tight.
Luc exhales slowly, nostrils flaring.
“You protected my daughter.”
“I protected what was mine to protect,” I correct softly.
He studies me for a long moment—assessing, calculating.
“The fuck did you say?”
“My relationship with Cecilia is not up for debate here.”
“There is no relationship with my daughter, you greasy fucking prick!” Luc roars.
And behind those dark assessing eyes, I can see the wheels turning.
But I wonder if he sees the truth.
I wonder if he can tell that the moment I saw Cecilia, something in me shifted.
That all the plans, all the vengeance, all the patient, polished hate I’ve been cultivating for years suddenly feel secondary.
Because I might have come back to America to settle a score. But now?
Now, I think I’ve found something worth more than revenge.
“Don’t tell me you went and did something fucking stupid, Stavros,” Nico growls, jaw clenched tight as a vice.
I meet his glare with one of my own.
“Your dockworker stepped out of line, and I stepped in. Period.”
Angel shifts like he’s trying to suppress a smile, but Luc Batiste’s voice cuts through the room, quiet and deadly.
“Did you fucking touch my daughter? My goddamn daughter!”
I turn slowly, locking eyes with the man who raised her.
“Luc, easy. Now, Stavros, did you put your hands on Cecilia?” Adrik Volkov asks—oh I know who this motherfucker is.
The infamous Dark Wolf. Business mogul. Unquestioned patriarch.
It’s not the question itself that pisses me off—it’s the insinuation.
The idea that I’d hurt her.
The gall to even consider it.
These might be four of the toughest men in the country—hell, in the world.
Nico and Angel Fury.
Adrik Volkov.
Andres Ramirez.
