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I study the crime scene photos again. The timing, the execution, the deliberate sloppiness of it all. Someone wants me to notice. Someone wants me to react.

"Your father asked about the bride this morning." Matteo's tone shifts, careful. "He seemed... particularly interested in her background."

"Did he." It's not a question.

"He mentioned Elena. Said something about history repeating itself."

My hand clenches, crumpling the edge of one photo.

"And what exactly did he say about my wife?"

"That she might be more valuable than anyone realizes." Matteo straightens his cuffs, but doesn't look me in the eye.

The implication hangs heavy in the air. My father never says anything without purpose. Every word is a test, a trap, or a warning.

Nothing more, nothing less.

My pulse doesn't quicken. My breathing remains steady. But beneath my skin, rage coils like a serpent preparing to strike.

I trace the edge of one photo with my index finger, pushing aside my father's interest in my wife for now.

"No casualties then?"

“None, sir,” Matteo replies, his voice trained to stay flat after twenty years of loyal service. “Minor damage. Two unconscious. The breach lasted exactly seven minutes before the security override reset. Alessio’s combing through the code now. We suspect someone inside.”

I close the folder slowly.

My hands are steady, but inside, violence beats against its cage. Not because of the attack. But because of thetiming. Because of what they think they've discovered: that I have something worthprotectingnow, so I have become weaker.

They think marriage made me vulnerable.

Let them.

Let them all believe I’m softened. Distracted. Caught up in the curve of her hip and the sound of her voice, the feel of her tight cunt wrapped around me.

Let them take one more step toward what they think is weakness. Because when I strike back, they won’t just bleed.

They’ll beg for death.

"Send Enzo to tidy up." I keep my voice low, measured. "Quiet and clean. No retaliation yet."

Matteo's shoulders tense. "Sir, with respect—"

I silence him with a look. The kind that reminds him why I stand where I do, why even my father's most trusted advisor knows when to hold his tongue.

He swallows whatever argument he was about to make.

Good.

Because this isn't about revenge. It's not even about the warehouse.

This is abouther.

I return to my wing, footsteps silent against the marble floors. The door to my bedroom stands ajar, exactly as I left it.

She's still there. Still sleeping.

I lean against the doorframe, watching the silk sheet rise and fall with each breath, right where I pulled it over her.