I can’t.
Because every time she lifts that pill to her lips—every time she trusts me with something so small, so intimate—a part of me whispers that this is how I keep her. That if the world forces us apart, if alliances and expectations crush what we’ve built, then at least I’ll have this one truth anchoring us together.
A truth growing in the shadows. A truth only I know.
So, yeah, I watch her take the pill that does nothing before I bend her over the counter and fuck her again.
I’m not proud of it. But obsession rarely makes room for pride. And when it comes to Elizabeth I crossed the line a long time ago.
I am keeping my word to her. I have men in Kansas City digging through every alley, every backroom, every set of books to figure out who gave the orders to attack their holiday party. I move pieces, call in favors, put pressure on the right throats. I do everything I promised.
But I do more than that.
I feed my obsession.
I learn every fucking detail I can about Elizabeth. Not because I should or because it’s right.
Because I can’t stop.
I know her mother died when she was six, the same age Sienna was when she lost her mother. A cruel, echoing symmetry I wish I could ignore. I know her father couldn’t survive the grief and drank himself to death by the time she turned twelve. But she’s better off without him because he was nothing more than a thug. I know she lived with a great aunt after that, a woman who wasn’t ready to raise a child but did it anyway because no one else would.
I know Elizabeth grew up learning how to hold herself together because no one else ever did it for her. I know she got into college on a full scholarship she earned herself. Her major is still undecided, something she feels guilty about even though she shouldn’t. She never had the luxury of choosing dreams; she’s always chosen survival.
I know she’s only dated a handful of men. And God help me I hate every single one of them. Not because they hurt her. But because they ever touched something I want for myself. They got pieces of her I never should have cared about. Because they stood where I stand now. Because they were allowed to call her theirs in ways I never should’ve wanted. I read their names. I memorize their faces. I catalog their flaws until the jealousy burns clean through me.
She would hate me for this. If she knew the extent of what I’ve learned, what I’ve done, what coils in my chest every time I hear her name—she’d run.
And still, I can’t stop.
Because every detail I uncover pulls me deeper into a place I swore I’d never go again. A place where I’m not the Don, not the fiancé, not the strategist. I’m just a man who wants the girl hewas never supposed to touch. And wanting her is starting to feel less like obsession and more like inevitability.
My phone buzzes, slicing through the quiet of my office.
Cesaro’s name flashes on the screen.
I force my breathing to steady before I answer.
“Hello.”
“Just calling with an update,” he says. “We met with a store owner near the girls’ old apartment. He has footage of men hanging around his parking lot before the shooting.”
A cold pulse runs through me. Progress—finally.
I hum, low. “What about the tip?”
I set up an anonymous line two nights ago. It’s a number whispered through the underworld, promising cash to anyone with information. Most calls were trash. Noise. But one had sounded promising and too detailed to ignore.
Cesaro exhales. “I’m meeting with the man tomorrow.”
“Check it out first,” I instruct. “Verify he’s not bait. Then talk to the store owner.”
“Will do.” Silence stretches for a beat. Then he asks, “How’s Fran holding up?”
I lean back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Fran?”
“You mentioned the other day she was stressing over the menu for the reception,” he says, casual but curious.
“Ah. That.” My tone flattens. “We got it squared away. Chicken pesto for the Italians and some tofu dish for her friends.”
