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That was a challenge. A declaration of war that wouldn't end without blood.

I'd been running on three hours of sleep. Days spent managing the legitimate business, nights in places like this—smashing DeLuca's claws out of Manhattan the old-fashioned way. Bone by bone.

I lit a cigar. Nicotine and tar exploded in my lungs.

My phone buzzed.

A photo from Rocco. Ten mangled finger stumps arranged neatly in a silver ice bucket, dirt still caked under the nails.

"Deliver it tonight," I texted back, crushed out the cigar, and got in the car.

The New York skyline blurred past the window. I leaned back, closed my eyes, tried to let my violence-strung nerves uncoil.

But when the blood and exhaustion cleared, only one face remained.

Ruby.

I hadn't seen her in three goddamn days.

Her messages were always the same. "Swamped at work." "Meeting tomorrow." "Sorry, no time."

At first I thought she was keeping distance at the office. Made sense—our relationship wasn't exactly public knowledge.

But three days.

Seventy-two hours.

She hadn't called once.

The frustration burned from my spine straight to my skull.

She was avoiding me.

In that shitty Hoboken apartment during the rainstorm, I'd taken her roughly. Forced her to sob and beg on that cramped couch and narrow bed.

Did I scare her that night?

Or did she regret it?

The thought stabbed straight through my chest.

"Fuck." I grabbed my phone and called Clara.

"Mr. Moretti?"

"Get me the supervisor in Division Two." My voice was ice. "Tell Brenda—no, you do it yourself. Have the intern Ruby Caldwell bring the latest samples to my office. Now."

"Yes, sir."

I hung up and stared at the neon lights outside, bitterness coating my throat.

This wasn't like me.

I'd never lost control over a woman before. But Ruby was different. She wasn't some mistress rotating through my bed, wasn't some socialite throwing herself at me for money and status.

She was Ruby Caldwell.

The car stopped at IS·MA headquarters.