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I ignore her protest, moving to the sink. The crystal water glass, because everything in my world must reflect power, even the simple act of drinking, fills with cool water. I grab a hand towel, dampening it before kneeling beside her.
"Here." My voice is soft as I press the glass into her trembling hands. My other hand gathers her hair back, fingers gentle against her neck. "Small sips."
She obeys, and I track every detail with precision. The way her hands shake slightly. How she can't quite meet my eyes. The lingering scent of sickness that makes my jaw clench.
"Must've been the leftovers," she mumbles, attempting a weak smile. "From the club's kitchen last night."
My mind immediately starts calculating. Which supplies should I replace? Which staff should I question? How should I ensure this never happens again?
But beneath the practical concerns, suspicion stirs.
"I'll have everything from last night disposed of," I say, choosing my words carefully while I brush the cool cloth across her forehead. "Can't risk the club's reputation."
Or your health, I don't add. I don't tell her how seeing her like this makes the monster in me snarl with helpless rage.
She leans into my touch despite herself, eyes fluttering closed. Trust. It looks beautiful on her.
"You don't have to stay," she whispers. "I know you have meetings..."
"They can wait." My thumb traces her cheekbone, feeling the heat of fever or shame beneath her skin. Everything can wait. The empire, the threats, the endless games of power—none of it matters compared to this.
I gather her closer, letting her rest against my chest as the nausea seemingly passes. Her breath evens out, but I notice how one hand stays pressed against her stomach.
"Let's get you back to bed," I murmur, helping her to her feet. She sways slightly, and my arm tightens around her waist. "I'll have Maria bring you some ginger tea."
"We're supposed to visit your sister later today," she protests weakly. "I don't want to disappoint Angela."
The mention of my sister softens me a bit. "She'll understand. Besides?—"
A sharp knock interrupts, quickly followed by two more—Tomasso's pattern to indicate urgent business.
"Boss." His voice carries through the door. "We found them. The ones using your name to push product near St. Mary's."
I feel Ava tense against me. Of course. The high school near her brother's usual haunts. My jaw tightens as pieces click into place.
"Give me two minutes," I call back, then turn to Ava. "Rest. I'll handle this."
She studies my face, reading the shift in my demeanor. "Stefano..."
"Two minutes," I repeat, helping her to the bed. My touch remains gentle even as ice fills my veins. "Then we'll discuss visiting Angela."
In the living room, Tomasso waits with Matteo and two of our enforcers. Between them kneel three boys, all in their late teens. Their private school uniforms are stained with blood and dirt.
Good. They're already learning consequences.
"Found them selling to eighth graders," Matteo reports, disgust evident. "Using your reputation to scare off competition."
I adjust my cuffs. The monster is stirring. "Is that so?"
The middle one—designer watch, manicured nails, daddy's credit card practically visible in his pocket—starts blubbering. "Mr. Rega, please, we didn't?—"
My backhand silences him. The crack echoes through the penthouse.
"First rule of business," I say conversationally, crouching down to meet his terrified gaze. "Never invoke a name you haven't earned the right to use."
"It was just—" the one on the left starts.
"Second rule." I straighten, nodding to Matteo. He drives his fist into the boy's stomach. "Don't interrupt."