Page 15

The crowd swallows them up, swaying bodies, pulsing bass, flashing strobes, and for a second, I lose her. My chest seizes, something dark snarling awake inside me.

Then I find her again. Find them .

Matteo’s hands settle on her hips, easy, casual, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Jordyn grins up at him, a little unsteady from the champagne, her body swaying to the rhythm of the music, too close, too fucking trusting.

They move together, the space between them dissolving with every beat.

Her fingers slip into his, their bodies brushing, hips bumping.

Grinding.

Way too fucking close for two people who barely know each other. Unless...are they together? Is that what this is?

The blood roars louder in my ears than the music.

I shouldn’t care. I have no fucking right to care. She’s Matteo’s family now, same as me. And she deserves to have some stupid, carefree night where the world doesn’t crush her under its heel.

But watching her laugh, watching her dance, watching another man’s hands on her? As much as I hate to admit it, it feels like a thousand splinters driving straight through my chest.

My jaw is clenched so tight it aches. I press my knuckles against the glass so hard I swear the whole fucking wall should shatter under its weight.

This isn't jealousy.

It’s instinct.

Because Jordyn Windslow isn’t the type of girl that belongs here, in this club, on that dancefloor, in Matteo’s arms. She too fragile, a little too naive. She needs to be far away from monsters like me and playboys like Matteo.

Fuck, if she knew what I had just done, how much blood I have on my hands, the cold, unforgiving monster I become, she would run as fast and far as those slender legs would take her.

And yet...I can’t look away. Not even when it’s pissing me off to watch.

What the fuck has she done to me? What do I even know about this girl to become so... fixated . I’ve never in my life become this emotionally attached to someone this fast. Not in this world. Not with blood on my hands and ice in my chest.

She’s young. Too young for me to be infatuated with.

She’s fucking nineteen. A kid. A teenager.

Still so heartbreakingly innocent, even when she’s standing there laughing in the middle of a fucking club full of wolves. I drag a hand down my face, forcing myself to breathe, to remember who I am, to remember who she is.

But it doesn’t matter, because every second I stand here, every heartbeat she spends smiling at Matteo or twirling under those goddamn lights, she sinks deeper into my blood. And I don’t know if I’ve got the strength to cut her out.

After a while of watching her and Matteo dance together, I force myself to tear my eyes away. I cross the room, walk over to my desk, and drop into the chair like it’s the only thing holding me up.

I need to get a fucking grip. My head’s a mess, my body’s worse, and she is the reason behind both.

What the hell am I doing, looking at her like she’s mine to touch?

Like I didn’t just promise to keep her safe, from this life, from myself.

I’m a grown man, and she’s a goddamn line I should never cross.

But there’s a part of me...dark and unruly that doesn’t give a damn about right or wrong.

It just wants. It craves… her . And that part? It’s getting harder to silence.

This bullshit attraction is a distraction. One I don’t have time for. One I can’t fucking afford. I drag my hand through my hair, exhaling slowly, trying to force the chaos back into the cage where it belongs.

Jordyn is a beautiful complication I have no business wanting. Not now. Not ever. Especially not when I’m knee-deep in a brewing war with a rival clan, one misstep away from blood in the streets.

Leaning back in the chair behind my desk, I feel the leather creak under the tension straining every inch of my body.

The bass from the club below rumbles up through the floor, low and dirty, vibrating the soles of my boots, pounding like a second heartbeat against my ribs.

I close my eyes for a beat. Focus. Stay sharp.

You can’t save her from this world. You can’t even save yourself.

Leaning over, I grab the glass of whiskey from the edge of my desk, take a slow pull, letting the burn steady my nerves. Letting it drown the part of me that’s screaming to go down there and tear apart anyone who so much as looks at her.

I slam the glass back down, harder than necessary, a thin crack spidering across the crystal. The sound is swallowed whole by the music thudding through the walls.

I shift my focus.

Alessandro Romano.

You’re who I need to focus on. Enjoy the last couple of days on this earth, tu stronzo, because I’m about to rain all kinds of hell on you.

I pick up my phone, which is sitting on the desk and dial the number of an associate. The line rings once, and on the second ring he answers. “Ares?”

“Amico, abbiamo del lavoro da fare.” I tell him, staring at the glass wall ahead. “I want everything you can find on Alessandro Romano.”

I end the call and drop the phone back onto the desk, the weight of it barely making a sound against the wood.

A couple of hours bleed by and my office is thick with smoke and low voices. I sit back, glass of whiskey untouched, listening to one of my men lay out the beginnings of our retaliation plan.

Maps. Names. Targets. Romano's territory mapped out like a fucking chessboard ready for me to kick over.

We speak in low Italian, sharp and fast, plotting strikes, weighing the fallout.

Messina will burn. Romano will fall. And anyone foolish enough to stand with him will be buried alongside his so-called empire.

I’m feeling calm and detached. Exactly how I need to be. Exactly who I am.

Until a knock sounds at the door.

One of my men pushes the door open, chest heaving, eyes wide. “Boss,” he pants. “We’ve got a situation.”

My eyes narrow as I wait for him to continue. The kid swallows thickly, shifting like he can barely bring himself to speak.

“It’s the Windslow girl,” he says. “Jordyn.”

My muscles lock tight as the air leaves my lungs.

“What about her?”

“She’s out cold,” he blurts, voice cracking under pressure. “Found passed out in the ladies’ bathroom. Looks bad, Boss. One of the barmaids thinks it’s an OD. She might have taken something.”

Silence punches through the room. For one long second, the only thing I hear is the slow, heavy thud of my own heartbeat.

Then everything snaps. “She’s alone, Boss. Matteo’s... we can’t find him.”

I shove back from the desk, the chair screeching against the floor.

All I see is Jordyn. Small, fragile, broken, possibly dying on a filthy bathroom floor while I sit up here plotting revenge on the wrong fucking enemy.

“Find Matteo,” I growl, my voice barely human. I will deal with that little prick later.

“They’re already looking, Boss.”

I’m moving before he finishes speaking, the door slamming back against the wall as I tear down the corridor.

The crowd downstairs blurs past me. Music, lights, bodies. None of it matters. All that matters is getting to her, all that matters is making sure she’s breathing.

And the whole time, there’s only one thought in my head—whoever did this is already dead.

The bathrooms are tucked to the back, past the main floor. A place where nobody looks too hard at what’s happening. Where bad things fester in the dark corners.

Exactly where she should never fucking be, especially alone.

I slam the door open so hard it ricochets off the wall. The sickly-sweet stench of cheap perfume, bleach, and vomit hits me like a wave.

Empty sinks, one lone cleaner glances up, wide-eyed, and immediately bolts out without a word.

Smart woman. She doesn’t want to be here for what’s about to happen.

I stalk past the row of sinks and head straight for the stalls. The door to the last one hangs slightly ajar. The barmaid points me to the stall she’s in. As I get closer, something pale catches my eye on the floor.

My chest caves in.

I rip the door open with a snarl. And there she is.

Crumbled on the floor like a broken doll.

Her black dress tangled around her thighs, her hair a halo of chaos around her face.

Her skin is waxy, too pale, sheen of sweat sticking to her forehead.

One arm dangles uselessly at her side; the other is clutched weakly against her stomach like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“Cazzo,” I breathe, dropping to my knees beside her, my hands already on her, checking for a pulse.

It’s there. Faint. Fluttering under my fingers.

“Jordyn,” I rasp, my voice scraping raw against my throat. “Bambina, hey, look at me.”

Her eyelids flutter, a broken little whimper escaping her lips. Rage sears through me so violently, I see red.

Not now, Ares.

Focus.

Save her first.

Murder later.

I slide one arm under her back, the other behind her knees, lifting her up against my chest like she weighs nothing. She lets out a soft, broken sound that guts me deep.

“I've got you,” I murmur against her hair. “Sei al sicuro adesso. I've got you, Bambina. You’re going to be okay.”

I don’t stop to think. I carry her out of the bathroom like a goddamn reaper come to collect a soul. My car is already outside, engine on, waiting. I carry Jordyn against my chest, moving fast, my boots slamming across the floor. I don’t take the main exit. I don’t want a single set of eyes on her.

I cut through the staff hallways, the ones carved into the bones of the club for when business needed to be handled... quietly.

At the back of the building, the heavy steel door swings open into the alley behind Oscura. The cool night air punches against my skin, sharp and bitter, but I don’t slow down. My car is already waiting, engine idling. The driver behind the wheel, stone-faced, ready for whatever orders I give.

I move straight to the back door, the driver leaping out to open it. I slide into the back seat with Jordyn cradled tight against me, one hand supporting her head, the other clamped around her thigh to keep her steady.

Her body is limp. Too quiet...too fucking fragile.

My jaw locks, rage simmering just under the surface.

“Go,” I bark at the driver.

The car peels away from the curb without hesitation, the city lights blurring past the windows in a smear of neon and shadows.

I pull my phone out one-handed, punch in a number from memory.

It rings once. Twice.

“Boss?”

“Get a doctor to the house,” I snap. “Now. Tell him it’s urgent. Private.”

“Understood.”

I end the call and toss the phone aside. Every second that ticks by with her like this feels like a blade twisting deeper under my gut. What the fuck have you taken, Jordyn? Why would you do this to yourself?

I glance down at her, at the faint pulse fluttering against her throat, the way her fingers twitch weakly against my chest.

“You’re okay, Bambina,” I murmur against her hair, voice low and rough. “Stay with me, you hear me, stay with me.”

Because if she doesn't. If she slips away before I can make this right, there won’t be a hole deep enough in Sicily to hide the bodies I’m going to stack.