I look away, throat tightening. I want to argue. God, I want to scream that Stephen isn’t like that. That he’s intense, yes—volatile, yes—but he’s also gentle with me. Real. Honest in a way that others haven’t been. Still, there’s a grain of truth to what my father says. I saw it Saturday night when Stephen was near the Romeros. An old hate, as cold as ice that will never be thawed. Not by either family.
“Dad, I hear you,” I say quietly. “I do. But I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
He pulls out the chair and sits. “I expect you to end it. Now. Today. Let him know it’s over, and then you walk away.” His eyes harden. “I’m not losing you to the same brutal world that killed Daniel. I won’t.”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed. I don’t respond—not yes, not no—and that seems to be enough for him.
He lets out a slow breath and reaches for my hand. “Drop the Romeros as clients. Cut ties with the Moretti boy. And stay alert. I mean it.”
I nod mutely.
He leaves then, satisfied he’s delivered some paternal decree that will fix everything, as if the world bends to his willpower.
When the door closes, the silence is suffocating.
I lean back into my chair fully, pressing my palms to my face. My thoughts are a snarled mess—fear, desire, resentment, confusion, the memory of Stephen burning through the haze.
I should end it. I know that. Just days ago, I was going to. But then the charity event happened. Stephen happened, and I let myself want—really want—something reckless and wild and utterly wrong.
He’s dangerous.
He’s intoxicating.
He’s everything I shouldn’t touch.
But when he’s with me, when he kisses me, when he looks at me like I’m the only person he’s ever wanted—I feel alive in a way I never have. And that scares me more than the Romeros.
I stare blankly at the case files scattered across my desk, unable to focus on a single word.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what Ishoulddo. My phone buzzes.
I swear my heart stops when I see his name.
Looking forward to seeing you tonight.
I grip the phone so tightly my knuckles ache. And I realize—I’m nowhere near ready to let him go, no matter the danger that could lurk by dating a Moretti.
SEVENTEEN
STEPHEN
Alex,the damn Romero raises his glass in my direction from the bar. The smug bastard, like this is all just a game to him. We’ll see how much he likes to play when I knock his turkey teeth down his thick throat.
That look — the deliberate confidence, the way he angles his body, cocky and self-assured as if he’s untouchable. I know what he’s doing. He’s taunting me that he’s working with Dallen while knowing she’s mine.
And I don’t share.
I take a deep breath and glance at the woman at his side. I haven’t seen her before, but that doesn’t mean anything. Is she Alex’s girl? If so, maybe a threat toward her will keep the Romeros in line if they decide to step over the one I’ve drawn.
I glance at Lucien and Anthony, who are more than aware of who’s in this bar with us. My attention snags on Anthony.
He goes rigid like he’s seen a ghost.
Anthony doesn’t get rattled. He doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t lose control. He’s been in rooms with men who would skin him alive without blinking and walked out calm as a priest after confession.
But this?
This has knocked the breath out of him, and that scares me far more than Alex Romero ever could.
