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I hung up and threw the phone onto the table, rubbing hard at my temples.

Damn it. Those DeLuca lunatics had eyes on Ruby now.

They were just gathering intel for now, but I knew Lorenzo's playbook. If he figured out Ruby mattered to me, he'd use it without hesitation.

I couldn't let that happen.

I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, cigar burning quietly between my fingers, a thin ribbon of smoke dissolving against the glass reflection.

Paris glittered outside—the Eiffel Tower sparkling gold in the distance—but my mind was entirely on the woman asleep in the other room.

The DeLuca family's reach was even filthier than I'd thought. In Sicilian rules, women and heirs were always the first soft targets when power was at stake. Isabella had my best security. But Ruby? She was a fresh college grad still worrying about rent on a crappy apartment. She knew nothing about my world, had no business being dragged into this cesspool of gunpowder, betrayal, and blood.

So why was I this tense about her?

Just hearing her name mentioned alongside Lorenzo and his gutter rats made the killing instinct in me nearly explode.

This went way beyond a powerful man's possessiveness over a satisfying lover.

She was so different. That pure, burning heart hidden beneath her prickly shell. Her stubborn insistence on protecting others despite being torn apart by the world. Even the way she tried pushing me away with her fragile pride, only to be left defenseless under my gaze.

Everything about her fascinated me.

I knew my fascination was a hunt to her. But I had no intention of settling this crudely with money and power.

I didn't want a numb, pretty puppet.

I wanted all of her. Her pride, her talent, her soul—and the heat of her willingly falling into my arms.

Step by step.

Like cultivating a truly thorned wild rose. Patiently watering her, shielding her from the wind, until she bloomed completely. Until her roots dug so deep into my marrow they could never be torn out.

And for her to bloom safely, the filth on this soil had to be scrubbed clean.

I stubbed out the cigar and returned to the sofa, opening my portable workstation and slipping on a single surveillance-proof earpiece. The screen showed no business reports—instead, cargo manifests from Brooklyn docks, laundering records from five DeLuca fronts, and surveillance maps of European transit hubs...

The antique clock on the mantel struck two heavy chimes.

Already 2:15 a.m.

My eyes began to sting from staring at the screen. Two days of flying halfway around the world, plus tonight's high-tension strain—exhaustion finally crashed over me like deep-sea pressure.

I closed the laptop, leaned back against the sofa, and exhaled long and slow.

The living room was silent except for the faint hum of central air. I closed my eyes, meaning only to rest my burning optic nerves for a moment. But once my taut nerves loosened, sleep swept over me like a black tide.

I fell into a deep dream.

The master bedroom in my Manhattan penthouse. Charcoal silk sheets crumpled in messy folds under dim wall sconces, the air thick with cedar, fig, and lingering heat.

I stood at the half-open bedroom door.

Morning light sliced through the sheers, falling across the bed.

Ruby stood barefoot on the carpet, panicked, yanking that broken-zippered sequin dress up her body. The hem caught at her hips, fabric bunched in her fists. Her face was tear-stained, lids swollen red, eyes avoiding the bed as she reached for her clutch on the floor.

Then she moved toward the door. Fast.