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ChapterTwenty-Three
Lucas
Lucas Emmerico sits in the executive offices of the Emmerico-Dalton syndicate’s biggest holding company, completely enraged. He’s at his brother’s desk, in his brother’s office, soon to assume his brother’s role and his brother’s responsibilities. He’s heard it all his life, the importance of getting his hands dirty, of not letting an opportunity pass him by. He’s always prided himself on his ambition and determination, his willingness to do whatever it takes to bring down his enemies and solidify his claim to power—even when that means being willing to go to the lowest depths, depths no one else in his fucking family would deign to stoop to, and slingshot his way to the top one inch at a time.
And now, just as it all seems to be coming to fruition, after all the blood he’s spilled for his damned father and his useless brother and this stupid fucking alliance… Now his wife decides to up and run off, up to her eyeballs in some subhuman low-ranking gang shit, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to do about it. It’s bad enough she jumped in the sack with his brother, of all people—the one person who was supposed to keep her in line while he was off taking care of the Stryker brothers. It’s bad enough that he had to fight his own flesh and blood over what was rightfully his, and now, within days of returning to his house, his bed, she escapes—and he’ll be damned if this doesn’t have Theo written all over it.
That’s why Lucas is fuming as he sips at a glass of scotch and stares at the television. All the major news channels have been running features on his runaway bride. It’s a hell of a story, he’ll give them that much: the daughter of a wealthy London socialite disappears from the hospital after a mysterious shooting, without leaving a trace? They might as well have ripped it from a crime novel. And all the fucking lemmings out there trying to help with the search, posting pictures of her on every fucking social media platform, begging for information… he almost feels sorry for the stupid bastards. Almost.
Almost a week later, though, and they’ve got nothing. No leads, no sightings, nothing. Now there’s talk of a murder investigation—a fucking murder investigation—and that spells trouble.
It wasn’t supposed to have taken this long. The made men, the ones his bastard brother didn’t poach, are getting restless. And that’s not even getting started on Andrew Dalton himself.
Lucas snorts, swigs back the rest of his scotch, and glances down at his phone. It’s his father calling, because of fucking course it is, probably wringing his hands about the alliance and how the gangs aren’t on good terms like they used to be—like Lucas doesn’t fucking know. He contemplates answering, and then decides to let it go to voicemail. He has to be careful now—his web of lies is tenuous at best, and the last thing he needs is his father questioning his story. He’ll just have to sit back and wait for the day he can take over and tell his father where to shove it.
He brings his glass down with a loud clack, rising from his chair and making his way to the windows. His black eyes, burning with hatred, scan the London skyline, as if by looking hard enough, he can figure out where she’s gotten off to. He’ll get her back, oh yes. It may take time, and it may take resources, but those are two things he’s got plenty of. And when his little wife is returned to him, begging for his forgiveness, he’ll make sure she never, ever forgets her place again.
“Where are you hiding, Vivian?” he asks, his tone dark and cold in the silence of the office.
As if in response, there’s a knock at the door, and he’s feeling twitchy enough already that the sound makes him jump. “What?” he demands, turning around. How many times has he told his father’s men to get off his ass? It shouldn’t matter how he takes care of Theo; all that should matter is that the son of a bitch is out of their lives—for good this time.
But instead of announcing their presence, the person on the other side strides into the room, bold as can be, provoking a fresh surge of indignation. He’s ready to tell her to leave, but he pauses with his mouth open to speak. There’s something about the woman who’s just walked in that’s vaguely familiar. She’s dressed in a conservative, tailored suit, her shiny dark hair pulled off her face, and you could spot the calculating look in her eyes a mile away.
“Who are you?” Lucas demands. “I don’t remember giving anyone an appointment today.”
“You didn’t have to,” the woman replies, speaking in a musical accent. “I’m not here on business.”
Lucas snorts. “Believe me, lady, I don’t have time for—”
“Your wife,” the woman interrupts, crossing her arms as she stops in front of him. “Vivian Emmerico, isn’t it?”
Lucas frowns. “What about her?”
“You’re looking for her, yes?”
“Me and everyone else in this fucking city,” Lucas snaps. “What’s it to you?”
“Let’s just say... I have reason to want to know where she is as well.” The woman crosses the room, extending a manicured hand. “Sienna DiMarco.”
Lucas raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t shake her hand. So that’s why she seemed familiar. “Of the DiMarco family?”
“The one and only,” the woman replies.
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t shoot you right here,” Lucas says. “Your father pulled out of the syndicate the minute my brother—”
“I’m not here on family business,” the woman, Sienna, interrupts, her expression going cold. “What my father did or didn’t do to your operations is of no concern.”
“Then why are you here?”
The woman sighs. “Let’s not beat around the bush, Mr. Emmerico. We both have reason to believe your wife has been in contact with your brother and his network. That network happens to include my boyfriend.”
Lucas snorts. “I’m not interested in other people’s drama.”
“Not even if it pertains to your wife?” The woman raises her eyebrow. “Is it beyond reason to wonder what, exactly, her relationship is to your brother? The rumor mill has it he was obsessed. Deranged. But I know Theo Emmerico, and I know when there’s more to the story.”
“What are you saying?” Lucas demands, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“I’m saying,” Sienna replies, “that this little minx of yours may just have caused you the biggest insult a man can suffer: to be cheated on. And if she’s being protected by Theo’s operation, then my boyfriend, his best friend... may be susceptible to her charms as well.”
