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Not ever.

Tenderness gets people killed in my world.

I learned that lesson early in life. It only takes a few untimely funerals before the lesson really sinks in. You stand by a hole in the ground and watch a body be buried, and you learn very, very fast that you must be hard. You must becold.

I built everything I have on the foundation of that coldness.

The Bratva doesn’t follow soft men. The men who obey me have signed up to follow strength, ruthlessness, and the willingness to do what must be done without flinching. Every man in my organization has watched me put bullets in skulls. They’ve seen me carve loyalty into flesh when words weren’t enough. They respect me because they fear me.

And Kir…

My son needs a father who can teach him to survive this life. Not one who gets distracted by a woman half his age with sad eyes and a smart mouth. If he sees me soften, sees mewantsomething beyond power and control, he’ll think it’s possible to have both.

It isn’t. I know that better than anyone.

The partition lowers. “Home, sir? Or the office?”

Neither option appeals. Home is basically a mausoleum.

The office is worse, though. Fluorescent lights and the lingering scent of Rae’s perfume clinging to every surface of the fiftieth floor…

Blyat’,I can still taste her on my tongue.

“Neither.” I clear my throat. “Upper West Side. 89th and Broadway.”

As we cross the city, I reach into my pocket and find the scrap of black lace that I made Rae give me. My fingers close around it and my dick starts to harden again. I lose myself in the warmth of it, the softness.

Soon, the car comes to a stop that jars me out of my reverie. “Here, sir.”

I step out of the vehicle and into the shadows across the street from the brownstone that is my destination. An upper story window glows yellow against the night.

The rage that’s been simmering since I dropped Rae off hasn’t faded. It’s intensified during the drive here, feeding on itself, growing teeth.

She knows what she did tonight. Shemeantto do it. So did he.

So now, I must do this.

When I knock, Preston Howell answers the door in cashmere loungewear, scotch in hand. His smile falters when he recognizes his late-night visitor.

I don’t wait for an invitation—I step inside and close the door behind me.

“L-Lukas,” Preston says as he stumbles backwards, recovering his composure. “This is unexpected. Can I offer you a drink?”

I survey the tastefully decorated foyer. Original artwork—a Basquiat, if I’m not mistaken—hangs on the wall. Fresh flowers in a crystal vase. The life built on Daddy’s money and tech-bro charm, all of it arranged to project effortless sophistication.

I feel nothing but contempt for him.

“No,” I say. “But you’re going to need a strong one.”

The memory of tonight’s dinner makes me sick to my stomach. For three fucking hours, I watched Preston Howell lean into Rae’s space, touch her knee, drape his arm across the back of her chair like he had any goddamn right to be near her.

That fuckingsmileof his. I hated that smile. I looked around the room and saw a hundred objects I could use to fucking ruin it. He looked at her and grinned like it was only a matter of time before he had her spread beneath him.

I want to break every bone in those hands that touched her.

I want to cave in that smug face until his own mother wouldn’t recognize the pulp.

I want to wrap my fingers around his throat andsqueezeuntil his eyes bulge and his legs stop kicking and the light goes out of him forever.