Page 28

A heat coils in my chest, tightening like a serpent, but this time it isn't pure anger. Not entirely. It’s something far more insidious.

Desire. I press a palm against the wall, trying desperately to ground myself in this spiralling moment.

This can’t be happening. I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t have this knowledge. But I do.

And now it’s mine—burned into my brain like a brand, slow and merciless in its torment.

And I can’t un-hear it. Can’t un-see her standing in my gym that day in that oversized t-shirt, barefoot, looking up at me with those captivating blue eyes.

The eyes of someone innocent who sees me as the only person capable of hurting her, yet the only one, for some bizarre reason, she trusts not to.

I push away from the wall and step back, retreating down the shadowed corridor, vanishing like smoke folding into itself.

I came here to report a death.

But I’m leaving with a far more dangerous truth.

With the frustration I’m feeling, the bag isn’t enough.

It’s just a silent witness, absorbing my rage without protest. I need something that hits back.

So, I call Dante into the ring. The basement gym is a shadowy underworld, dimly lit with flickering bulbs casting eerie shadows on the concrete walls.

The air is thick with the raw scent of sweat and blood mingling with the oppressive heat, precisely the way I like it. It’s clean, brutal and real.

Dante’s quick, a blur of movement, but I’m usually quicker. Tonight, though, my timing’s off, like a clock that’s lost its rhythm. He ducks under my right hook with the agility of a cat and drives a solid punch into my ribs. I grunt, barely flinch, and step back, eyes narrowed.

Circling me, Dante keeps his hands up, eyes sharp and calculating. “Your head’s not here, Ares.” he states between laboured breaths. “Problem?”

“You asking or offering?” I snap back, my voice edged with irritation.

He smirks, a wry twist of his lips. “Just wondering if I should be aiming higher.”

I lunge at him again, determination burning in my veins, but he blocks it cleanly, his forearm meeting mine with a solid thud. My jaw clenches tight as her voice invades my mind once more.

“I want it to be monumental…” I step forward and swing for Dante. I miss. “... like we’ll die if we don’t give in and taste each other.”

Damn it. Focus.

Dante lands another swift jab. I barely register it, my mind distant.

“You’re off,” he observes flatly, stepping back with a slight shake of his head. “You’re never off. Something on your mind?”

I rip off the gloves, hurling them down onto the mat with a frustrated growl.

My chest heaves, not from physical exertion but from the storm raging inside me.

I’ve gutted a man, ignited a war, and left his body to hang in the city square as a bloody testament.

Yet, all I can think about is her voice.

Her enticing mouth. The way she confessed that she’s never been kissed, never touched.

And now, every time I close my eyes, all I see is her.

Not naked or moaning. Just watching me with that soft, fucking wide-eyed look… like she’d let me ruin her if I asked.

And that… that is more dangerous than anything any of my adversaries could throw at me.

By the time I storm out of the gym, my shirt clings to my skin, and my knuckles ache.

But I don't stop to cool off.

Apparently, Luciano and Enzo are waiting in the study and judging by the closed door and the tension in the air, this isn’t a conversation they want echoing through the halls.

I push the door open without knocking.

Enzo glances up from the bar cart, halfway through pouring himself a whiskey. Luciano sits behind the desk, suit impeccable, cigar already lit, the room thick with smoke and silence.

“I take it you’ve seen the news?” I say flatly. “That’s why I’ve been summoned.”

Luciano exhales, the smoke curling like a serpent around his words.

“Yes, Ares, we saw the news. You could’ve made your point without stringing him up by his guts in the middle of the city.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been a point,” I snap. “It would’ve been a whisper. And I don’t whisper.”

Enzo slams back his drink in one go. “That wasn’t you just sending a message, Ares. You lit a fucking match. Romano’s family are not going to let this go.”

“Then they can come find me.” My voice is ice.

Luciano leans forward, elbows on the desk, eyes pinning me in place.

“Romano was reckless, yes. But you killed him in a way that made it personal, Ares. You didn’t just take his life, you made it art and hung it up for all to see.”

I say nothing.

Because he’s not wrong.

“What’s your plan when his father retaliates?” Enzo presses, walking over to the empty seat across Luciano’s desk and grips the back. “Giuseppe’s already calling meetings, gathering sympathy. If he aligns himself with the wrong people, this could spiral fast.”

“Then let them spiral.” I meet Luciano’s gaze without blinking. “I carved that message into their memory. If any of them want to test the weight of it, they’ll end up just like Romano. I can get real creative in way’s I make them bleed.”

Luciano's voice drops, cold and sharp as a knife. “You better pray it was worth it, figlio. Because when the other families start choosing sides, and they will, this won’t be a war we walk away from.”

I can’t resist the smirk tugging at my lips. “Here’s a suggestion. Why don’t you two focus on keeping the business above ground and in operation…and I’ll do what you bred me for and keep the underworld on its fucking knees.”

Luciano doesn’t say a word. He just stares, jaw tight, the line of his mouth drawn like he’s trying not to let the pride show through the disapproval. Enzo lets out a low breath, half a scoff, half a laugh, but there’s no humour in it.

“Where is the Ares that was adamant that he was out? No longer wanted any part of the life.” Enzo asks, lifting the glass of whiskey to his mouth to take a slow sip.

I turn my gaze to his, my tone glacial when I speak. “Non puoi creare un mostro e poi sorprenderti quando morde, fratello.” I assert, and without a second look I turn and walk out the study.

You don’t get to build a monster and act surprised when it bites, brother.

Eden is dim, decadent, and full of shadows.

It reeks of money and expensive perfume, sleek marble floors, backlit liquor displays, velvet ropes, and whispers that never reach the light. The kind of place where power dresses itself in luxury, and sin is served in crystal glasses.

It’s not my kind of place, not really. But we have ties here. Business ones.

Tonight, I’m here to talk numbers. Shipment logistics.

Routes we need to secure before the port audits tighten up next quarter.

The man across from me is Carlo Ventresca, mid-tier family muscle with enough clout to manage his own cuts, but not enough to breathe without permission.

Still, he’s smart enough to show up alone.

We shake hands. Exchange formalities. The music pulses faintly underfoot as we’re led by a hostess through the floor and up into one of the private alcoves, sectioned off by dark curtains, gold accents, and low lighting that was made for secrets.

He takes a seat.

I don’t.

I stand at the edge of the table, scanning the layout below. The club is busy but not loud. Smooth jazz on loop. Bodies in motion. Waitresses gliding between tables in dresses cut too high and heels made to be looked at.

Ventresca clears his throat, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Shall we?”

I nod once and sit, unbuttoning my jacket as he starts talking about the delivery schedules. I listen. Or try to.

Ventresca talks on about shipment rotations, dock timetables, percentages and payouts, his voice droning low, steady.

I nod along, half-listening, eyes skimming the floor below through the part in the curtain. It’s all background noise.

Until I hear it, the subtle clink of glass.

My gaze flicks toward the movement on instinct.

A tray trembles slightly in her hand. Crystal tumblers catch the light. And as she steps closer to the table, she leans forward, just enough to place a bottle of thirty-year-old Macallan down in front of us.

And that’s when I see her. Actually...I smell her. The scent of her fucking perfume wafts toward me and for a moment I feel like I'm hallucinating or on the verge of losing my damn mind.

Jordyn.

Her golden hair is curled down over one shoulder. Lips a deep seductive red. That dress hugging curves she has no business wearing in a place like this.

My pulse doesn’t skip. It slams.

She doesn’t see me at first, not with her eyes cast down, focused, polite, the way they probably taught her to be in training.

But I see her.

And just like that, I forget the deal, the shipment, the entire fucking city of Messina.

What the fuck is she doing here?