Page 70

The smell of the sea used to calm me.

Now it just makes me itch to set something on fire.

The wind whips hard across the docks as I step onto the gravel, flanked by Dante and two of our enforcers.

The warehouse ahead looms, half-shadowed under thick Sicilian sky, the kind of grey that presses on your skull.

Inside, the dockworker who opened his fucking mouth is waiting, tied to a chair, shaking, bleeding already. Someone got eager.

“Status?” I ask without looking at Dante.

“He skimmed manifests. Asked too many questions about what was inside the crates headed for Messina. Port authority flagged a container this morning. He’s not talking.”

“He will.”

I step inside the warehouse. The man looks up, eyes wide, face pale under the blood. Recognition flashes. Then fear.

“Signor Russo, please, I didn’t know who?—

I lift my hand. Silence.

He shuts up fast.

I circle once, slow. Controlled. Like I’m bored.

“You made a mistake,” I say, tone even. “Not the kind we can fix with a demotion.”

His lips tremble. “I didn’t say anything, I swear?—

I draw my knife and hold it up to the light, examining the edge like I’m inspecting a menu.

“I believe you,” I say calmly. “But your silence wasn’t the problem. Your curiosity was.”

I don’t need to say more. Dante knows what to do.

I walk back out to the open air while the man starts screaming behind me.

I light a cigarette and take a long pull, filling my lungs with the acrid smoke. My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I pull it out as the wind cuts past my face.

Bambina:

At first, I blink, confused. Then something inside me ices over.

I know those roses.

Clean. Sharp. White as snow and twice as dangerous.

It’s his signature.

Fucking Nicolai Moretti .

A low growl vibrates in my chest. I clench the phone so hard I hear the casing creak.

She thinks they’re from me.

The world seems to tilt, the sound of the man’s screams fading into nothingness as my mind races. White roses. Moretti’s calling card. A warning wrapped in elegance, a promise of chaos hidden in beauty. How did he find her? How close is he?

I glance around, scanning the street for any shadow that might move wrong, any car window that might gleam too long in the sunlight. My pulse thunders in my ears, every instinct screaming at me to act. To protect.

The wind carries the faint scent of gasoline and asphalt, mingling with the bitter tang of my cigarette.

I inhale deeply, trying to steady my thoughts, but it only serves to sharpen the edge of my fury.

Jordyn doesn’t know the danger she’s in, not yet.

And that heart emoji feels like a punch in the gut, a message that cuts deeper than any blade.

I toss the cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath my heel as I shove the phone into my pocket.

My fingers twitch at my sides, itching for the weight of steel, the cold and unyielding comfort of a weapon.

This is not a coincidence. This is a move.

Moretti clearly took my last message with a grain of salt and has made his play, and now it’s my turn.

I swipe out of the message and call Dante over without thinking. “I want every name tied to Moretti’s florist in Messina. Anyone who had access to the delivery schedule. Pull CCTV from the manor gate.”

“What happened?” Dante asks.

I pause. “Moretti just sent roses to my girl.”

The villa is too fucking quiet.

The lights are low, the fire’s burning, and the bottle of red I opened two hours ago still sits untouched on the table. Two glasses. Her glass is already half-poured. That was my mistake, expecting her.

I pace the length of the room again, pulse ticking like a loaded trigger behind my eyes.

I should be planning retaliation. I should be focusing on Moretti; on tracking down whoever delivered those white roses and making an example so brutal it echoes through every fucking family from Palermo to Rome.

But I’m not.

I’m here. Pacing like a madman in my own goddamn house because she said, “Maybe I’ll sneak out later,” and now it’s almost midnight and she’s still not here.

My phone sits on the table.

Mocking me.

When it finally lights up, I grab it in one breathless motion.

Bambina:

I’m sorry. I can’t come. Bianca put security on every entrance and exit. I think she knows I was lying. I tried, but I can’t get out, Ares.

I stare at the screen.

Not at the words. At the space between them.

The apology. The fear. The fact that she tried .

My teeth grind together. I set the phone down gently, but my hand trembles with restraint.

They’ve locked her in.

Luciano, Bianca, whoever the fuck gave the order, it doesn’t matter. Someone thinks they can trap her. Control her.

Keep her from me.

A cold calm slides through my veins. I roll my shoulders once and flex my fingers.

Okay, bambina.

If you can’t come to me tonight, I’ll come to you.

The streets are a blur of muted lights and shadows as I move through them, each step deliberate, each breath measured. My pulse is steady, methodical. The game has changed, and now it’s mine to play.

The alley is narrow, the air damp with the scent of rain that never came.

I pause, listening, every sound sharpening into clarity.

A distant laugh, the hum of a generator, the shuffle of a boot against cobblestone.

They think they know control, but control isn’t locking a door, it’s knowing what comes when the lock breaks.

The message is still open on my screen when I grab my jacket and step into the night.

No guards stop me. They never would.

The path from my villa to the manor is muscle memory by now, worn into my bones from years of moving between power and obligation. But tonight, it feels different. Heavier. Like the weight of her name is pressing into every step.

I don’t rush. Rushing leaves room for mistakes. And if Bianca really has posted security at the exits, then I’m not coming through one.

I’m going over .

The south side of the manor has vines running all the way up the trellis, ornamental, mostly useless. Unless you were trained to scale a wall by the age of thirteen.

I move like a shadow, quiet, fluid, unseen.

The window to her room is cracked open, just like it always is. She likes the breeze. The quiet hum of night. She once told me it made her feel less trapped.

I slip through in one fluid motion, landing silently on the hardwood floor. The room is dark, faint moonlight spilling across the edge of her bed, but she’s not in it.

At first, my body coils, panic sharp and cold in my chest. But then I hear it: soft footsteps beyond the door. The click of the bathroom light two doors down the corridor. The water running.

I move fast, tucking myself behind the bedroom door before it opens. Every muscle in me stills, honed from years of moving in silence, in shadow.

The door creaks open.

She steps in, barefoot, wearing one of those satin night dresses again, that’s too short and clings in all the wrong ways. It’s not red this time though, it’s a baby blue, matching the colour of her eyes. She closes the door behind her slowly, like she’s trying not to wake anyone.

The second it clicks shut, I move.

One hand slides around her waist. The other clamps over her mouth as I drag her back against my chest, hard enough for her breath to catch.

She jerks, only for a second, until she hears my voice.

“Shhh,” I whisper against her ear. “Sono io, Bambina.”

She freezes. Her heart hammering, her spine tight.

And then she melts against me.

My hand stays over her mouth, not to silence her, but because I need it there. To feel her. To remind her.

Her breathing’s ragged now, warm against my skin, and my grip doesn’t ease, not yet. I press her harder into the door, every inch of her caged by me.

I feel her exhale, slow, trembling, and only then do I let go.

My hand slides down from her mouth, tracing her jaw, her throat, until it rests just above the collarbone.

“Ares...” she whispers, eyes wide as she stares up at me. “How did you get in here?”

I smirk, low and slow. “Did you really think a couple guards and a locked door could keep me out, bambina?”

I lean in, brushing my nose against hers.

“If I want in, nothing stops me.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just stares up at me like I’ve stolen all the air from the room.

I lower my head so we’re at eye level and I let my fingers trace down the curve of her arm until they find the hem of her nightdress. My voice drops to a rasp.

“What if someone saw you?” she breathes.

I smirk against her skin, my lips trailing just beneath her ear. “They didn’t.”

I pause, low, deliberate. “Shadow moves for me, bambina. I don’t get caught... not unless I want to be.”

Her throat bobs. “You truly are an enigma, Ares Russo.”

A low hum leaves me as I trace the line of her jaw with my knuckles. “That what I am to you? A mystery?”

She nods slowly, gaze flickering to my mouth. “A beautiful and untamed mystery.”

Ah, Fuck.

The way she says it, soft, breathless, it wrecks me in ways I’ll never say aloud.

I lean in, close enough that our mouths almost touch. “Then figure me out, bambina. I won’t stop you.”

My hand slides up, curling gently around the back of her neck. I pull her forward just enough to feel her breath catch.

“I want you to know every inch of me,” I murmur. “Even the parts I’ve buried. The parts no one’s ever touched.”

She exhales like she’s drowning in the weight of my words. Like she wants to sink deeper.

I push her hair behind her ear, fingers lingering. “But be sure, Jordyn... once you know me, really know me, you’ll never be able to walk away.”

Her lips part.

I don’t give her the chance to respond.

I kiss her, slow, deep, possessive. Like I’m imprinting something into her soul. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my vest like she needs something to anchor her.

She kisses me back like she’s starving.

And maybe she is.

Maybe we both are.