“A couple hours ago.”
“And she’s alone?”
“Yes.”
The ache in my chest twists tighter, sharp enough to make me press a hand there like I can stop it.
What the hell is this? Guilt? Possessiveness? Something else entirely?
Lorenzo studies me carefully. “You want her moved somewhere safe?”
I should say no. I should let her run, hide, disappear. It’s what every logical part of me screams for.
But logic has never felt this small.
“She doesn’t even know who’s protecting her,” he adds.
“She doesn’t need to,” I say. “Bring her in.”
He hesitates. “Dante—”
“Bring. Her. In.” The words come out quiet, final. “No one touches her again.”
He nods and leaves without another word.
When the door shuts, the silence feels suffocating.
I stare out the window, the skyline gleaming in morning light, and all I can think about is her.
Her voice when she’s angry. The way she bites her lip when she reads. How she must’ve looked standing in that rain with glass around her feet.
I’ve killed men for less than what she’s done to my peace.
Some part of me—the part that remembers what it’s like to feel—is furious that someone tried to hurt her.
Another part —the one I trust —knows this isn’t about business anymore.
I’ve been obsessed with threats before, but this feels different. Personal. Primal.
Like someone aimed at something mine.
Nicole steps in quietly, holding a tablet. “The girl?”
I nod once.
“She’ll be frightened,” she says.
“Good,” I murmur. “Fear makes people listen.”
But even as I say it, I know I’m lying.
Because when I picture her afraid, it doesn’t feel like power.
It feels like punishment.
Nicole lingers, eyes soft. “You don’t even realize it, do you?”
“Realize what?”
