His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

26. Skye

26

SKYE

I 'm reading through last month's invoices when I come across a weird discrepancy. I'm certain it has to be wrong, and for once, I'm glad for all the cameras I have. It takes me a minute to get logged in, but when I start to scroll through the footage, I'm surprised I can see outside my store too.

My fingers freeze on the keyboard as I try to find the date I'm looking for. The timestamp shows that day just before I moved in with Luca. I watch as the O'Malley guy that tried to attack me coming up to the boutique - twenty minutes before he grabbed me - and he's not alone. Two faces I now know well hover in the background. Bas and Mickey, wearing those expensive suits Luca insists his men wear, speaking to the O'Malley soldier in the shadows of my storefront.

"No." The word escapes as I lean closer to the screen. The O'Malley soldier's stance is relaxed, hands in his pockets as he nods along to whatever Mickey's saying. Nothing like the rage-filled man who stormed in later, spitting accusations about his wife's designer wardrobe.

The scene changes. He had grabbed me, his grip bruising but his eyes... dead. Calculated. Then Luca appears, all lethal grace in his tailored suit, that empty blue gaze fixed on the O'Malley guy like a predator sizing up prey.

My stomach turns as the pieces click together. The timing. The convenient arrival. The way Luca's men materialized exactly when needed.

The laptop screen blurs as I remember how Luca's hands felt when he pulled the guy off me, how his voice dropped to that dangerous whisper. How he insisted I needed protection and that happened. Protection only he could provide.

And then there was another attack two days later that had me moving into his house. I am such an idiot.

I barely even remember the anger in me when I demanded Mickey take me home. All I know is that he said the boss was there, and the next thing I know I'm storming into Luca's house, past his guards, my heels clicking against marble floors with every furious step. The sound echoes through the foyer like gunshots.

I find him in his office, suit jacket draped over his chair as he studies something on his desk. Those ice-blue eyes flick up to me, empty as ever.

"You set me up." The words tear from my throat. "I saw the footage. Your men talking to that O'Malley soldier right before he attacked me."

Luca leans back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting. No other reaction crosses his aristocratic features. "Skye-"

"Don't." I slam my hands on his desk. "Don't act like this is nothing. You orchestrated the whole thing. Sent him in to scare me so you could swoop in and play hero."

His fingers drift to the silver watch on his wrist, adjusting it with precise movements. That small tell speaks volumes.

"You needed protection." His voice stays level, controlled.

"I needed-" A bitter laugh escapes. "You manufactured a threat. Created a problem so you could solve it."

"What I did was necessary." His voice stays steady but something flickers in those arctic eyes. "You weren't going to accept protection otherwise."

"Because I didn't need it!" My palms sting from where they hit his desk but I don't move them. "The only danger I was in was the one you created."

"No. The night you agreed there was a fight outside, and I did not orchestrate that one."

I bark out a laugh in disbelief. "Oh, so because everything wasn't manipulated by you, then it was okay?

He rises from his chair in one fluid motion, stalking around the desk. I refuse to back away even as he towers over me, close enough I catch that hint of cool mint on his breath.

"You have no idea what's out there." The words scrape from his throat, rougher than I've ever heard. "The things that could happen to you."

"The only thing happening to me is you manipulating-"

He drags a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Instead of fighting me, getting angry, anything I expected, he looks…panicked. Especially when I catch the tremor in his usually steady fingers.

"I couldn't risk-" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. Those perfect features twist with something that looks almost like pain. "If something happened to you..."

I've never seen him like this. Luca Mantione doesn't do emotions. Doesn't hesitate or struggle to choose his words - when he bothers to say something. He calculates. He controls. He manipulates. But right now his breathing comes harsh and uneven, his composure cracking like ice in spring.

Is this all an act, too?

"Don't." I press my hands against his chest, pushing him back. "Don't pretend you feel anything. You're incapable of it. This is just another performance, another way to-"

"You think I want this?" The words tear from him, raw and ragged. "You think I enjoy not being able to sleep unless you're in my bed? That I like checking security feeds a hundred times when you're at work? That I-" He drags in a breath that sounds like it hurts. "I had to make sure you'd stay. Had to keep you safe."

The desperate edge in his voice sends chills down my spine. This isn't the cold, controlled man I know. This is something else entirely - and it terrifies me more than any of his calculated violence ever did.

His fingers keep drifting to that silver watch, twisting it, adjusting it - a nervous tic I hadn't realized had stopped until now. I've watched him settle into the man he is - and I don't even know if it was a lie. The perfect composure I'm used to cracks further with each movement, like watching a marble statue develop hairline fractures.

"You don't understand what you did wrong, do you?" My voice comes out soft, wondering. "You genuinely think as long as I wasn't physically hurt, everything else is acceptable."

Those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine, confusion creeping into their usual emptiness. "You're safe. Protected. That's what matters."

The clinical way he says it - like reading from a manual on human interaction - makes my chest ache. I watch him retreat behind that wall of cold logic, the brief flash of desperation buried beneath practiced control.

"Luca." I step closer, ignoring how he tenses. "Safety isn't just about avoiding physical harm. Trust matters. Choices matter. You took both from me."

His jaw works, that aristocratic profile sharp with frustration. "I calculated every variable. Ensured no lasting damage would occur. The outcome was optimal-"

"Stop." I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart race beneath the expensive fabric. "Stop treating this like a math equation. I'm not a problem to solve."

"Then explain." The words grind out between clenched teeth. "Tell me what I should have done differently when you were being so-" He cuts himself off, fingers white-knuckled on that watch. "So stubborn about accepting protection."

The raw plea in his voice breaks something in me. This brilliant, broken man who can orchestrate complex schemes but can't grasp why betrayal hurts worse than bruises. Who thinks love is a tactical advantage and trust is a weakness to exploit.

"You should have talked to me." My fingers curl into his shirt. "Should have given me the choice instead of manipulating me into what you wanted. Protection without consent isn't protection - it's control."

He goes very still under my touch, those empty eyes widening just a fraction. For the first time, I see past the calculated exterior to the scared eight-year-old boy who learned that control was the only way to survive.

But I can't live like that.

"I need time." The words scrape my throat as I step back from him. "And I need you to not force this. To let me choose."

His fingers twitch toward me before curling into fists at his sides. That perfect composure slips again, revealing something raw underneath. "Skye-"

"No." I hold up my hand. "You don't get to calculate your way out of this one."

I turn and walk out before he can respond, my heels clicking against marble in a staccato rhythm that matches my racing pulse. The drive back to my apartment feels longer than usual, my mind replaying the tremor in his usually steady hands. I avoid Mickey's eyes in the mirror.

The familiar sight of my boutique's facade does little to settle my nerves. I don't say a word as I slip out of the car, slamming the door as Mickey says my name and rushing to my apartment. The space feels different now - smaller, less like home and more like a statement of defiance.

Movement catches my eye through the bay window. Of course they're still there. Mickey and Ace patrol the street below, their stances alert despite the casual way they seem to be chatting.

My fingers hover over my own phone. I could call them off, tell them to leave. But the words Luca spoke earlier echo in my head - you have no idea what's out there . The raw desperation in his voice when he said it...

I let my hand drop. Let them stay. Not because Luca wants it, but because right now, it's my choice to make.

The irony isn't lost on me as I sink onto my velvet couch, tucking my legs under me. I'm choosing the very protection I'm angry at him for forcing on me. But maybe that's the whole point - it hits different when it's my decision.