Only in design. And she has no idea that her life has already shifted. Fuck. I have hunted men across state lines without losing sleep. I have ended bloodlines. I have buried enemies. Yet here I am, obsessing about a redheaded vet assistant in a suburban house who is easily the most dangerous thing that has crossed my path in years. Because I do not know what I will become if she ever looks at me like that again.
But I intend to find out.
My email dings. I turn from the window, back to my desk, and click the mouse to wake the sleeping monitor. I have a new message. From one of those numbered Gmail accounts that can never be traced. It holds an encrypted attachment. Which, under normal circumstances, I would never open, but there is also a photo of Catarina attached to the file. My fists ball when I see her swollen, bruised face.
I close my eyes. The coroner said she was in the water for a day or two before she was found at Hoover Dam. Some of the damage was done by fish.
The world goes red. Not metaphorically. Red. There was a time—before Enzo made me understand what discipline actually means—when rage owned me. When I would black out. When the edges of my vision would narrow until all that existed was the target.
I don't remember every detail of what I did in those moments. I remember the aftermaths, though. Broken knuckles. Blood that wasn't mine. Rooms destroyed. Men begging.
Damiano once said watching me lose control was like watching a building implode from the inside. No hesitation. No pause. Just devastation. Over the years, with Enzo's help, I learned to leash it.
"You don't get to lose control," he told me once, after I nearly killed a man who had already given us what we needed. "Control is power. Rage is for amateurs."
So I trained it. I buried it. I made it useful. Now, when it rises, I don't explode. I compress. Like a star collapsing inward. But right now—watching Catarina's face on that screen—the leash strains. For half a second, I'm back in that warehouse three years ago. Knife in my hand. Blood on the concrete. Massimo's voice, steady beside me. I inhale. Slow. Measured. Control.
I inhale again. Count it. One. Two. Three.
Exhale.
The red recedes. I open my eyes. The video is still frozen on her face. Swollen. Bruised. Unrecognizable. The fish marks were the worst part. Not because of what they did. But because they felt… careless. Like the universe treated her as disposable. She wasn't. She was mine. The rage pulses again.
Hot.
I swallow it. Because monsters who lose control die. Monsters who control themselves rule. And I rule.
With a click, I open the video. It begins without sound. It takes three seconds for my brain to register what I'm looking at. Concrete floor. Dim lighting. A chair. Bound hands. Dark hair matted with blood. My lungs stop working.
Then the sound starts. It's her voice. Raw. Torn. Screaming. "Why are you doing this to me? Why?"
Catarina. My twin. The men laugh. I know those laughs. I killed those men. I remember exactly how they died. I remember the weight of the blade in my hand. The smell of gasoline. The way Massimo stood beside me.
We ended them. All of them. Her screams echo off concrete walls. She's begging. Not for her life. For an answer. "Why?"
The men taunt her. One steps into frame. I know his face. I carved that face open three years ago. He's dead. I made sure of it. The video cuts. Another clip. Her crying is quieter now. Broken. There's something in her voice I've never heard before. Fear, yes. But something else. Protective. As if she's thinking about someone. The video ends abruptly. No explanation. No demand. No threat. Just silence.
What the fuck was that?
Who would send this?
Most of all: Why now? Who filmed it? Who kept it? Who waited three years?
My hands are steady. That's the only indication of how furious I am. If they weren't steady, someone would already be dead. The door to my office opens without a knock. Kale, my head of security, steps in. He stops mid-stride when he sees my face. "Bad time?"
I close the screen. "Always, what's up?"
"Ezara's at the poker tables," he fills me in, and I groan. "He's… not in a good mood." Of course he isn't. "He's downtwenty grand already and threatening to break someone's hand for counting cards."
I take a deep breath. "Keep him there. I'll handle it." After a short pause, I add, "And Kale."
"Yes, boss?"
"Find out who sent me that last email. If you can avoid it, don't open the attachment."
Kale is professional enough not to show any emotions. "Yes, boss."
"And this stays between us."
