“No one touches what’s mine,” he said. The words landed heavier than the body at our feet.
“I was fine,” I managed. “I was just…”
“Don’t,” he cut in softly.
I stopped. Not because I wanted to. Because something in me knew better.
Leo stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint smear of blood along his knuckles, the calm in his expression that made it worse.
“You ran away from me,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
My pulse started racing again, panic clawing its way back up my throat. “I had a chance.”
“And you took it,” he said. Something flickered in his eyes then. Not anger. Not exactly. Something darker.
“Good,” he added, almost thoughtfully. “As expected. I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t try to get away.”
I stared at him, trying to understand how that could possibly make sense.
“Next time,” he continued, his voice dropping just enough to make my chest tighten, “you won’t get that far.”
“I almost did,” I shot back, because I couldn’t not say it.
His mouth curved, just slightly. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, the reality of what had just happened settling heavier with every second.
The body. The blood. The fact that no one was coming to help me, and my escape plan was wasted, gone.
“That was your warning,” he said finally. “Do you want to start a body count of people I’ve killed to have you?”
My stomach dropped. “I didn’t ask you to… Tokillhim!”
His gaze didn’t leave mine. “I’ll kill anyone who lays hands on my property.”
Chapter Seven: LEO
Chiaradidn’tlookatme when I brought her back to the penthouse.
It meant she was thinking. Replaying the scene outside, the blood on the pavement, the moment she realized exactly what happens when someone forgets themselves around me. That kind of thinking had a way of settling deep, of reshaping expectations faster than anything I could threaten her with.
The front shut behind us with a quiet, final click that echoed just enough in the open space to make the silence feel deliberate. Chiara stayed near the entrance instead of moving further inside, her posture tight, shoulders held just a fraction too rigid, like she was deciding whether to bolt again or brace for what she already knew was coming. Even from across the room, I could see the faint tremor in her hands, the way her breathing hadn’t quite evened out yet.
“You’re shaking,” I said, setting my cufflinks down on the table with more care than necessary. “Are you afraid of me, Chiara?”
“I’m not.”
It was an immediate answer, sharp, defensive. A lie.
I let the quiet stretch instead of calling her out on it, unhurried as I adjusted the sleeve of my shirt, giving her just enough time to feel the weight of being watched without understanding what I was going to do next. She tried not to look at me, but she failed in small ways. Quick glances, the subtle shift of her attention that kept snapping back.
“Come to me.”
“I’d rather not,” she choked out.
The refusal came fast, predictable.
I didn’t repeat myself. I didn’t need to. I simply held her gaze when she finally met it, letting the expectation settle between us.
