Lorenzo
I’m spiraling.As much as I’d like to pretend I’m not, I’m about to murder every person in this fucking mansion because they breathed the same air in as Victoria. If that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my mind, I don’t know what does.
I don’t bother announcing my departure and don’t even look back. I don’t trust myself not to take out my gun and start shooting.
The front door slams behind me with a crash. A guard standing outside by the front door flinches. Good. If they’re startled, they’re paying attention. If they’re paying attention, they’re not letting anyone in.
I stride down the steps two at a time, jacket half on, fingers already curling like I’m reaching for something to break. The night air hits me sharp in the face, calming me for exactly half a second before my damn phone buzzes.
I grab it out of my pocket and check the message.
Still nothing from Boston. Of course.
I slide into the car and slam the door. Tonight, I’m not driving, so instead, I bark directions to my driver. A second later, tires peel out of the drive, gravel spitting behind us.
I press my thumb against my jaw, hard enough to hurt.
She did that on purpose.
Not the flirting. That was amateur hour. The timing. The look she gave me was not coy, not innocent, not even defiant. It was curious.
She was testing how close her fingers could get to the metaphorical blade without getting cut.
I should have shut it down. If I were smarter, I would have ordered her upstairs and locked the door myself. Instead, I threatened my own man and let her see it.
Stupid.
I roll my neck once, twice. “Fucking hell.”
Twenty minutes later, the warehouse comes into view. The car barely stops before I’m out, my boots hitting pavement hard enough to echo.
The sooner I get in there, the sooner I can get back to making sure Victoria is keeping out of trouble.
I hate that every thought leads to her.
Maybe I didn’t think this plan through properly.
With a shake of my head, I stride inside. Rafe looks up from a table scattered with folders and phones, eyes sharpening the second he sees my face.
“Well,” he drawls, pushing off the table, “you look like someone just pissed in your dinner.”
I ignore him. “I need updates,” I snap, stripping off my jacket and tossing it aside. “Now.”
Vin straightens from a crate, tablet in hand. “Boston’s still quiet.”
“I figured, but I’m going to need you to define quiet.”
“No new hits. No movement on the docks. No chatter on the usual channels.”
I pace. Fast. Aggressive. Too tight. “That’s not quiet. That’s waiting.”
Rafe watches me like he’s deciding whether to stay put or duck.
“You’re wound pretty tight,” he says carefully. “Something happen at the house?”
I stop, slowly turning to face him head-on. My lips part, but the smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “Unless Boston developed the ability to walk into my living room and piss me off,” I reply, “I’d say no.”
Vin glances back and forth between us. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he’s wise enough to keep his mouth shut.
