This isn't about territory.
It's abouther.
About the way she's looking at me like I'm the last solid thing left in a world that keeps tearing itself apart. Like she's already lost everything and still reaches for me.
Again.
That terrifies me more than any enemy ever has. Because I feel it, the old pull, sharp and dangerous and stupid. The instinct to step forward. To put myself between her and the world. To break the rules that I carved into my flesh just to keep breathing.
I swore I'd rather die than make that mistake again. But God help me, seeing that motherfucker hurting her makes my vision go red.
I take one step. Just one. Already knowing there's no walking away from whatever comes next.
The city exhales.
The morning doesn't hold its breath anymore.
It already knows the answer.
The eyes of the man who is holding her widen. It's subtle. A flicker. The moment he realizes the wrong man has noticed him. I stride forward. Unhurried, my gaze now firmly on my prey.
"This is none of your business," he snaps, squaring his shoulders, tightening his grip like that will save him. "Step back or?—"
I would have loved to hear the end of that sentence, because, or….What? What would that glorified bodyguard have done to me? I'm too enraged, though. I interrupt, setting him straight. "You're on my property, and you're hurting a woman," I cut in.
My voice is low. Flat. Deadly.
The words land harder than shouting ever could. My men shift behind me. Ready to finish whatever I start. I lift one hand without looking back.
Stay.
I don't need them.
The rent-a-bodyguard laughs, sharp and brittle. "You think you?—"
I step into his space. Close enough that he can see it in my eyes. Close enough to smell his cologne, his fear, the stale confidence of a washed-out special ops asshole who thinks the world still owes him respect. He doesn't get to finish the sentence. My fist does it for him. It connects with a dull, meaty crack that vibrates up my arm. Bone meets bone. The sound is wrong, too solid, too final. The man's head snaps to the side, his grip breaking as his body folds like someone cut his strings.
He goes down hard. Knees first. Air explodes out of him in a wet gasp; hands scramble for balance that doesn't exist. He doesn't even try to get back up. He just stares at the ground, stunned, blood already spilling from his mouth onto polished stone.
The Strip keeps moving.
Someone screams.
Someone films.
Security freezes.
Jenna sways.
I'm there before she hits the ground. She looks up at me like she's trying to focus through water. Half broken. Bruised.Exhausted beyond reason. Her eyes search my face like she's afraid it might disappear if she blinks.
My jaw tightens.
"Jenna," her name comes out in the same way you greet someone at a dinner party. Calm. Polite. As if the world isn't on fire.
"Massimo," she whispers in the same tone she used before she fell asleep in my arms or when she woke up.
Her eyes roll back.
