Page 35

I’m fucking irate. There is an inferno blazing in my chest, yet I don’t speak.

Not when I haul her out of that dank, fluorescent-lit room, her boots snagging on the blood-slick floor.

Not when her trembling fingers curl around mine, small and warm, as if they were forged to latch onto mine forever.

Not when we step over the crumpled bodies of Nicolai’s men, bodies twisted in agony, stained crimson, each laboured breath a ragged plea.

I don’t look at her, either.

Because if I catch the glint of fear or relief in her eyes, my chest will cave in.

My veins pulse with heat and rage, every nerve tensed like a coiled spring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. The night air smells of sweat and oil and coppery blood.

We reach the bike, and without a word, I pull off my leather jacket and drape it over her shoulders. It swallows her frame, but she doesn’t shrug it off.

She looks up at me, searching for something.

But I keep my eyes down.

Because if I look at her, I might see judgment. Or worse… I might see disappointment or disgust. And if I’m being honest, I’m not ready for either.

Not when the blood on my hands hasn’t even dried.

I pick up the helmet from where it hangs and shove it into her hands without a word.

She flinches, just slightly. Like a heartbeat skipping a step.

Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, and for the first time, I feel the tremble in her touch.

Whether it’s from fear, adrenaline, or something else, I don’t know. I can’t afford to care.

I can feel her eyes on me still, searching, always fucking searching. For reassurance. For comfort. For the man she believes I am.

Which I don’t have in me right now.

Not after what just happened.

Not after what I let happen.

I swing my leg over the Ducati, planting my boots on either side of the beast. My grip on the handlebars tightens until the leather groans under my gloves. The engine snarls beneath me like it feels what I feel, like it wants blood too.

Because tonight, I fucked up. I haven’t lost control like this since I was fifteen, and even then, there was a body at my feet and no one left to witness it.

For the first time in a long damn time, I let my emotions dictate my actions. I showed my hand. I broke the cardinal rule: never let them see your weakness.

And Nicolai Moretti? He saw it.

He saw the way I looked at her. The way I moved when he touched her. The violence I unleashed without hesitation.

And now he knows.

He knows that my weakness is five foot five with golden blonde hair, blue eyes, and a mouth that never fucking listens.

Jordyn Windslow.

She thinks my anger is because she disobeyed me, because she stepped into Eden dressed like bait, pouring drinks for a man that doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as her. And she’s right. Partly.

But it’s more than that.

It’s the ache in my gut when I saw her cornered under that flickering light. The terror in her eyes that I failed to erase in time. Because if I’d been even a second slower, if I’d hesitated, what would Nicolai have done to her? And what would I have done, in my own blind fury?

I grit my teeth until my jaw aches. I want to hurl the helmet across the cracked asphalt. I want to roar back inside and tear down every last man who dared look at her.

But I don’t.

For her...because she’s watching.

And for the first time, I realise just how fucking dangerous that is.

Because she sees me . And tonight, she saw the real me. The ugly in me.

And I don’t know if I’m the kind of man who survives being seen like that.

Instead, I twist the throttle and let the engine throb. I wait for her to climb on behind me. When she does, her arms slide around my waist, her cheek resting against my spine and for a heartbeat, I close my eyes, not in relief, but in restraint.

The way she touches me, quiet, trusting, vulnerable, makes me feel things I was raised to kill inside myself.

And if I don’t get us out of here soon, I’m going to do something unforgivable.

The ride back is a blur of wind, darkness, and silence. Jordyn doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.

When we pull through the gates of the Russo estate, I kill the engine and swing off the bike without a glance in her direction.

I hear the gravel shift as she climbs off behind me, but I keep walking, straight toward my villa, straight toward the only place that doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode beneath my feet.

I don’t trust myself to speak.

Not yet.

The front door slams behind me. I strip off my gloves, letting them drop to the floor as I head to the bar and pour myself a double of whatever’s closest. My hands are still shaking.

Blood, not mine , crusted across my knuckles.

I don’t feel the sting. I don’t feel anything except the thundering of my heart in my ears.

I don’t hear her come in, but I know she’s there.

She’s quiet and cautious. Waiting.

“Ares?” Her voice is soft, frail.

I don’t turn. I lift the glass to my lips instead, letting the burn ground me.

She crosses the room slowly, coming to stand a few feet behind me. I feel her presence like heat on my skin. She waits, for me to explode, to scold, to shatter the air with fury.

But I don’t.

And maybe that’s what finally breaks her.

“You're really not going to say anything?” she demands, her voice cutting through the tension in the room, now sharper and braver.

“I thought you would be furious. I thought you would yell or throw things.” I set the glass down with a deliberate motion and clench my molars together, feeling the strain in my jaw.

Finally, I turn to face her. She’s standing in the centre of the room, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if she's trying to hold herself together.

Her makeup is smudged, streaks of mascara staining her cheeks, and her hair is a wild mess, strands escaping in every direction.

Yet, despite her dishevelled appearance, she remains the most dangerous thing I've encountered all night.

“Go home, Jordyn,” I say, my voice carrying a weight of finality.

“No,” she insists, shaking her head, her tone softening as she murmurs, “I'm trying to apologise.”

“I didn’t ask for an apology,” I reply, my voice steady, low, like the calm before a storm. “Maybe next time, don't do stupid and reckless things you have to apologise for. Maybe listen when someone tells you not to do something.”

Her brows knit together in confusion. “I didn't think, "

“Was it worth it?” I interrupt, my tone icy, cutting through her defences.

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Putting yourself in that situation, dressed in that outfit for one of the most dangerous men in Sicily, Jordyn?” I watch as her lips part, but no words escape.

“Do you have any idea who Nicolai Moretti is?”

“No,” she squeaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I figured he wasn’t exactly a cinnamon roll when he offered me money to sleep with him and then flashed his gun at me after I slapped him.”

Silence.

Cold and heavy.

Something inside me goes still.

Not calm nor quiet. Still , like the moment before a bomb goes off.

My eyes fix on her, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe.

“He did what ?” The words come out low. Threaded with something lethal.

She blinks, caught off-guard by the shift in my voice. “He, he offered me money. I said no and slapped him. He pulled out his gun, tried to intimidate me.”

A laugh escapes me, dead and hollow. My knuckles twitch at my sides.

“Did he fucking touch you?” My voice isn’t mine anymore. It’s rough and unhinged.

“No,” she says quickly, her chin lifting. “I didn’t give him the chance.”

My teeth clench so tight my jaw cracks.

The image plays out in my head like a film reel doused in gasoline, Nicolai cornering her, his hand at his hip, that smirk, the offer. The implication.

The fucking audacity .

He’s a dead man.

I turn away from her because I can’t look at her right now. Not without seeing red.

“Quel fottuto figlio di puttana.” I growl. “You should’ve told me sooner,” I mutter, trying but failing to rein it in. “I would’ve?—”

“What?” she challenges. “Would you have killed him, Ares?”

I don’t answer.

Because we both know the truth.

Yes.

Yes , I would have.

Hell, I fucking am going to kill him. In the worse possible way a man can be killed.

I ram my fist the edge of the bar, the glass shattering in my hand as if it sensed what I was thinking.

Jordyn flinches and I hear her gasp.

Blood drips down my fingers, sharp and bright, but I barely notice. Not until I feel her beside me, her hand reaching for mine.

“I’m fine,” I grit out, pulling my hand away before she can make contact. I don’t need her touching me right now. To soothe me or clam me down. I don’t need her scrambling what’s left of my goddamn sanity.

But I’m not.

I’m anything but fine. I’m seconds from storming out of here, riding back to Messina, and ending Nicolai Moretti’s bloodline.

“Ares, you don’t have to protect me. I can handle myself.” she says after a moment, quieter now.

I spin back to face her, eyes burning. “ No, you can’t. Not when it comes to men like him.”

She straightens. “Then tell me, Ares. Instead of giving me empty warnings, tell me what kind of man he is.”

I stare at her for a long moment. Then I take a step closer.

“You want to know what Nicolai Moretti is?” I ask, voice like gravel. “He’s the kind of man who once slit a girl’s throat because she tried to run out on him during dinner. Left her body in the booth and finished his wine before walking out.”

Jordyn blanches. I literally see the colour drain away from her face.

I press in. “He traffics women across the Adriatic like cattle. Has a network of clubs in three cities. His money is soaked in blood and built on pain, and you, walking into that club in that outfit? You just became his next fucking obsession.”

She sways slightly, like the weight of it hits all at once.