I watched him, feeling the familiar ache of old wounds—the years we’d fought both alongside and against each other, the clandestine promises made in shadowed corridors. There was a time, brief and blinding, when trust had seemed possible. I remembered the night, years ago, when Leviticus confessed his dreams for his family, his voice thick with hope and fear, and how I’d laughed—bitter, disbelieving, already too hardened bymy own betrayals. That memory lingered now, a thin crack in the wall I’d built between mercy and ambition.
But I’d learned long ago that sentiment was a luxury I couldn’t afford. My connection to Leviticus was forged in shared ambition and broken by his betrayal. The child—innocent, blameless—was nothing but collateral in a war neither of us could win. My choices, brutal as they were, had always been guided by survival, not compassion. And yet, as I met his gaze, I wondered if the monster he saw in me was born from the same fears that haunted him.
Shaking my head, I let exhaustion settle over me. “Marry her off to whomever you can. I won’t claim any child who wasn’t conceived in holy matrimony. You sealed her fate when you chose war over loyalty, and now your daughter will bear the price. But don’t mistake my indifference for cruelty. Once, I might have tried to save you both. Now, all I can do is walk away.”
The silence between us thickened, heavy with unsaid words and the chill of regret. Outside, city lights blurred and flickered, casting long shadows across the marble floor—a reminder that every choice had its cost, and every debt demanded its due.
Leviticus was silent, the finality of my words settling between us like ash after a fire. He pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes haunted yet resolute—a man torn between defiance and surrender, weighing the consequences of every possible response.
But there was nothing left to say.
My decisions had been made.
The damage was done.
With a bitter exhale, he stood abruptly. “So be it,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, each word edged with resignation. The moment marked an end—not just to our conversation, but to any illusion that mercy could be found here.
“Careful, Barbari.” My eyes narrowed, a warning that his next move could seal his fate.
Leviticus paused at the threshold, his hand trembling ever so slightly before he steadied himself. Without another word, he left, the echo of his footsteps fading as he brushed past a young couple entering the restaurant, their laughter a stark contrast to the tension lingering in the air.
Watching as the maître d’ greeted them, my phone vibrated. I reached for it and read the text message my brother Cesar had sent me.
Cesar:Claim her. The Mexican cartel is no more.
Closing my phone, I grinned.
Finally.
She was mine.
Chapter Fifteen
Miranda
As we stepped into the restaurant, warmth and golden candlelight wrapped around us, mingling with the savory aroma of roasted garlic and fresh herbs that drifted from the kitchen. The clink of silverware against porcelain and the low hum of conversation filled the air, occasionally punctuated by laughter or the pop of a cork behind the bar. It was a cocoon of comfort—until an older man swept past, his tailored coat brushing roughly against my shoulder in a cold rush. His departure left a wake of icy silence as I barely caught his muttered curses in Italian beneath his breath, but the chill lingered, as if he’d stolen the room’s warmth with him.
Oliver exhaled a disbelieving huff. The sound was sharp, out of place amid the gentle ambiance. He stared after the man, brows knitting, his expression flickering between shock and indignation. I could see his hands flex at his sides, a physical echo of his agitation.
“Wow,” Oliver said, voice low, shaking his head. “Rude much?” The words carried a faint tremor of protectiveness, as though he was ready to shield me from any further affront.
Before I could answer, the maître d’—his cologne a too-bright note in the air—hurried over, his polished shoes tapping urgently on the marble floor. The concern etched around his eyes was unmistakable, and I noticed the way his fingers twisted together.
“Mr. Thorpe,” he gasped, addressing Oliver but glancing at me. “My sincerest apologies. Are you okay, miss?”
I tried to steady my breath, forcing a reassuring smile that felt brittle at the edges. The reminder of the man’s brusque exit still prickled beneath my skin, and I realized I’d begun rubbing my shoulder—a nervous habit I’d picked up in childhood whenever I felt exposed. It was as if I were trying to smooth away the tension that had taken root there or perhaps erase the ghost of the stranger’s passing touch.
“I’m fine. Really,” I said, my voice gentle as I attempted to ease the maître d’s nerves and my own. The scent of citrus polish and simmering wine drifted between us.
Oliver’s skepticism didn’t waver. He studied me closely, his concern deepening when he saw my hand absently massaging my shoulder. “You sure, Savy?” His tone softened, threaded with worry—a sound I’d come to recognize as his way of reaching out, even when words failed him. He moved a little closer, a silent promise of support.
Catching myself, I quickly let my hand drop, cheeks warming. I forced another smile, determined to convince not just Oliver, but myself. “Perfectly fine. I promise.” Even as I said it, my eyes glanced around the restaurant, noticing several people watching, hearing their hushed murmurs when my eyes landed on him.
There, in the back of the restaurant, sat Massimo Vitale watching me intently as he slowly smiled, then motioned for a waiter. Even when he spoke to the young man, his eyes never left mine. The server nodded and quickly headed our way.
I stiffened.
The waiter quietly approached the maître d’ and whispered something in his ear before leaving as quickly as he had arrived. Facing us, the maître d’ stiffened. “Mr. Thorpe, Mr. Vitale has requested that you and the young lady dine with him tonight.”
