The bedroom had certainly seen better days.In addition to the chaos from her tantrum earlier, there was now blood on the sheets from where her nails had torn my back open.Our clothes scattered like evidence.
We’d destroyed everything.
I felt her breathing start to slow, felt her body relax against mine despite everything.My hand traced patterns on her bare shoulder, following the curve of bone beneath skin.
“You can’t escape me,” I said quietly.“You never could.”
She didn’t respond.Just lay there, her face pressed against my chest, her breathing evening out.
I’d told her I loved her.Confessed my obsession with her.
Now it was up to her to decide if she’d accept it.Accept me.Or if we’d continue this fight a while longer.
Chapter Thirteen
Marco
The Macallan 25 burned less than the memory of Dante De Luca’s grip on my hand.I sat in the leather chair facing the penthouse windows, the city spread forty floors below like a game board I’d momentarily lost control of.Three days since that disaster of a dinner at the Lombardi estate.Three days of my rage crystallized into something colder and far more useful.
I’d miscalculated.That’s what grated most.I’d walked into Giuseppe’s dining room with a strategy -- provoke Dante, remind Caterina of what she’d rejected, plant seeds of doubt about the De Luca alliance.Instead, I’d left with a throbbing hand and the bitter taste of humiliation coating my tongue like ash.
The reflection in the window showed a man who looked composed.Perfectly groomed hair.Expensive suit even at this late hour.The kind of polish that came from years of cultivating the right image.But my eyes betrayed me -- dark with an anger I couldn’t quite mask, fixed on my blackened fingers with an intensity that suggested obsession rather than mere injury.I’d had emergency surgery on them, but there was a chance they’d never work the same again.
I took another sip of scotch and let myself replay the evening frame by frame.The way Caterina had looked at me when I’d arrived -- not with longing or regret, but with something closer to contempt.I’d never before seen the dress she’d worn, which meant De Luca had bought it.He’d covered her in fabric he’d paid for, wanting to show his ownership of her.His hand disappearing beneath the tablecloth to touch what was mine -- should have been mine -- while I watched helplessly.The bastard had known exactly what he was doing.Known I could see the small catches in Caterina’s breathing, the way her pupils dilated despite her attempts to maintain composure.
He’d marked her.Probably with bruises I couldn’t see, in places I’d never get to touch.The thought made my grip tighten around the crystal glass until I worried it might shatter.
I’d pushed too hard at dinner.Made accusations about his business that were more hope than intelligence.Questioned his attention, his capability, his worthiness.Watching Caterina’s father side with the man who’d stolen his daughter’s future had been its own special torture.
Then I’d made the biggest mistake.The comment about treasures worth waiting for, about her choosing unwisely.Dante’s control had fractured just enough that when I’d reached across the table -- not to touch Caterina, just to emphasize my point -- his hand had closed around mine with a pressure that sent lightning up my arm.
Everyone at that table had seen me wince, seen my face pale, seen Dante establish dominance with nothing more than a handshake that wasn’t.Then the bastard had broken my damn fingers.
I was supposed to be the strategic one.The chess player who thought twelve moves ahead.Instead, I’d been outmaneuvered by a man who’d married Caterina with very little time to plan and turned it into the alliance Giuseppe had always wanted.
My phone buzzed against the side table.I picked it up, grateful for the distraction from thoughts that were circular and unproductive.The message was from Ricci, one of my most reliable men.An update on the surveillance I’d ordered.
Target follows consistent schedule.Confirmed patterns attached.
I opened the attachment and felt something like satisfaction cut through the anger.Photographs loaded one by one -- a young man with dark curly hair and Caterina’s green eyes.Luca Lombardi.Age nineteen.University student.Giuseppe’s heir and Caterina’s beloved younger brother.
The photo quality was excellent.Ricci had outdone himself.I swiped through images taken over the past week -- Luca leaving the Lombardi estate through a side entrance that security didn’t monitor as closely as they should.Luca at his usual coffee shop near campus, and in the university library, always at the same desk on the third floor, usually alone after nine p.m.
A boy with predictable patterns, who thought he was protected by his family name and his sister’s new alliance.A boy who had no idea that protection was an illusion that could shatter with the right application of force.
I studied each photograph with the analytical detachment I’d cultivated in business negotiations.Luca dressed casually -- expensive but not ostentatiously.He carried himself with the unconscious confidence of someone who’d never had to fear real consequences.In several photos, he was smiling.Young and naive and completely unaware that someone was cataloging his life for purposes that would destroy his sense of security.
Good.
The rage that had been churning uselessly in my chest began to transform into something more refined.More useful.I’d been thinking too small at dinner.Trying to undermine Dante’s reputation, trying to make Caterina doubt her choice.But that was playing their game, on their terms, in their territory.
I needed to change the board entirely.
Luca appeared in every intelligence report about the Lombardi family.Giuseppe’s pride.The son who would inherit the empire.But more relevantly for my purposes -- Caterina’s weak point.Everyone knew she’d protected him throughout their childhood, had fought with Giuseppe over his education and freedom.The few times I’d observed them together, her affection had been obvious.Genuine.The kind of love that made people reckless.
I pulled up the most recent report.Luca’s class schedule.His typical route home.Every second of his day.Security at the university was minimal -- cameras focused on entrances, but the parking lot was poorly lit.Students came and went at all hours.
Vulnerable.
