Page 23 of Devour (Blood and Roses #1)

Luca

A few days after the results confirmed I was a match for Noah; they started him on six days of intensive chemotherapy. Once his system was cleared, the transplant was scheduled for the following day.

Now, I’m still sore from the procedure they did yesterday to collect the marrow. I didn’t feel anything during the procedure itself, thanks to the anesthesia, I didn’t like not being in control of my body though, but it was necessary.

My lower back still aches, like someone drove their knuckles into my spine and forgot to stop. The soreness, the stiffness—they’re nothing compared to what my son has been enduring. And I didn’t know.

I stare down at the hospital garden from the window of the private room, as I button up my shirt, rage simmering beneath my skin. At myself. At Arie. For keeping this from me. For thinking I didn’t deserve to know.

“Boss, there’ve been whispers on the street.”

I turn to him as he lights his cigar, one leg casually crossed over the other in the chair. Marcel—the family lawyer.

On the surface, he looks harmless with those lazy, half-lidded eyes. But underneath that calm facade is a beast. I’ve seen him in his full glory once or twice in the underground fighting pit hosted by the House of Caruso.

It’s where cartel members go to let off steam, prove their worth. Deals are sealed in that pit. Blood is spilled. Territories are won. I’ve fought my fair share of battles there, carving out territory for the family. But Marcel? He’s something else.

A savage in a tailored suit. He drags the fight out, lets his opponent wear themselves thin, and then—when the moment’s right he strikes. No hesitation. No mercy. Sometimes, I still can’t decide who’s the deadlier killer, him or Axel.

“What whispers?”

“The other cartels,” he replies, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “They think we’re weak for not hitting back at Romano immediately.”

I study him, watching the way he draws on the cigar—calm, deliberate. “What do you think?” He meets my gaze without flinching.

“I’ve been watching your rise for the past two years. You’ve grown into your power. If I’d seen even a flicker of weakness, I would’ve taken you out myself.”

A beat of silence. Smoke curls in the air between us.

“A leader doesn’t react. He calculates. Then he strikes when it matters.”

He leans forward, uncrossing his legs. The hand holding the cigar gestures toward me, then back toward himself, slow and deliberate—like he’s building a case in court.

“The Italians… they wanted to drive fear into us. They demanded the heads of those two men. If you’d handed them over, they would have seen you as weak. But you didn’t.”

His eyes narrow slightly, respect buried behind the edge of his words.

“That showed strength. And your willingness to protect and fight for this family, no matter how low a man’s rank is. That matters. It sends a message.”

I nod in understanding. He knows how much I value loyalty, his father was one of my dad’s advisers before he retired, and now he’s taken over the role.

“You know you shouldn’t be smoking near a man who just had surgery,” I mutter, half amused.

“You’ve been inhaling this since you were a boy. What doesn’t kill a man…” “…makes him sharper,” Marcel finishes, a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. I chuckle, but it fades quickly.

“It’s not safe for your family here,” Marcel says.

“I know.” My smile slips away, replaced by the steel behind my eye. In the world I live in, the bigger your territory gets, the more enemies you make. Now that I have a weakness, they’ll come for it. And I can’t let that happen.

“Noah’s responding to treatment. I’ve already had the family doctors prepare a room for him. We are leaving today.” Marcel nods slowly.

“Well planned.”

“Do you have the documents I asked for?”

He dips the half-burnt cigar into the flower vase at the center of the table. It dies out with a faint hiss. Reaching down, he lifts the briefcase on the floor beside him and places it on the table.

The lock clicks open. He leans over, rummages through the contents, and pulls out two folders. He lays them out separately in front of me.

“Just as you asked. Do you think she’ll sign them?”

“She will.”

A commotion at the door interrupts us. One of the guards' knocks, then steps inside.

“Mrs. Ariel is at the door. She’s demanding entry.”

“Let her in.”

As the guard opens the door to leave, she forces her way in. The second guard outside tries to stop her, but the one stepping out motions for him to let her through. Both men leave, closing the door behind them.

I turned my attention to her. She’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling from the effort. She looks better than she did in the last few days—stronger. I’ve seen the joy strip from her piece by piece during Noah’s chemotherapy.

Watching him suffer broke me just as much as it broke her. But that part is over now. The doctors say he just needs time—time for his body to adjust.

As long as he’s kept in a controlled environment, he’ll recover. He’s strong. That strength runs in his veins. He gets it from the Falcone blood.

“What’s going on?” she demands, her voice sharp, eyes blazing. “Why won’t your men let me see my son?”

“Because I gave the order,” I say flatly.

She stares at me like I’ve grown two heads.

“Why would you do that?”

“He’s my son just as much as he is yours,” I say, my voice laced with steel. “You kept him from me for years. I kept him from you for a day, and you can’t stand it.” That stops her. Her lips part, but no words come. She pauses, caught between fury and guilt.

“I admit I was wrong,” she says quietly. “I should’ve told you.”

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, my voice low but firm. “You had so many chances. Or did you want to run again?”

“No,” she whispers, and I hear the crack in her voice, like something breaking beneath the surface, but I don’t stop there.

“The only thing that kept you here was my son’s illness.”

My son. The word still feels foreign on my tongue… but saying it out loud stirs something warm in me, something dangerous.

“I was scared.”

“That I’d hurt you?”

“No…” She shakes her head, slow at first—then faster.

“My son…”

Her voice breaks again, trembling.

“No.” Her head shake becomes frantic. “I was scared you’d take him away from me,” she breathes. “And… I didn’t want him growing up in—”

“In the mob,” I finished for her, stepping closer.

My voice tightens. “You were afraid he’d grow up like me. Like a man whose father kills anyone who crosses him.” “He is my heir. My firstborn. The first of many you’ll give me.”

“I watch her eyes grow wide with shock.”

I don't know why I said that, but it just feels right. From the corner of my eye, I catch Marcel watching us, amusement flickering behind his otherwise impassive expression. He’d better not screw this up for me. I stopped a few feet from her.

Without looking, I extend a hand toward Marcel. He already knows. Wordlessly, he passes me one of the documents.

“It’s too late for that now,” I say, holding the paper out toward her. My eyes lock on hers.