Chapter 35
Chapter
Thirty-Five
“I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
― Sarah Williams
Angelo
“How was Christmas, Greg?”
The bastard turned, that wicked grin spreading across his ugly face as he brought his cigar to his lips.
After our weekend in the Hamptons—one of the greatest fucking nights of my life—who would’ve guessed that screwing my gorgeous, annoying-as-hell employee, whose pussy almost made me lose my mind, would lead to me coming on her tattoo and nearly passing out?
The morning after, I’d fucked her in the shower, pinning her against the wall, hands gripping her ass as I’d pounded into her. Hot water had streamed over us, her head thrown back, nails raking my skin as she’d gasped for air.
We’d spent the rest of the day eating, playing Uno, and watching the kids tear into their gifts. My eyes had never left her—not for a second.
When the kids screamed with joy, her laugh almost joined them—but her hand tightened around her glass, and her eyes drifted toward the ocean like it held all the things she couldn’t say out loud.
I couldn’t read her fully, but when her eyes had locked with mine, I’d seen it: sadness .
Later that night, in the helicopter on our way back to New York, I’d grabbed her hand, kissed the top of it, and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t wanna go home.”
When I asked her why, she shrugged like it didn’t matter, and told me to forget it.
Like I could ever forget something like that.
We landed on the museum’s rooftop, and I drove us to her favorite Japanese restaurant. Over the years, I’d learned about her obsession with sushi, and knew she often would order takeout from this place.
We ate, and she was back to her snarky self, making fun of me every chance she got—how I held my chopsticks, how I used too much wasabi, or not enough soy sauce.
She said I was embarrassing her, but it had only taken a minute before I’d had enough.
I slid into the booth beside her, wrapped my arm around her shoulders, and whispered, “Then feed me.”
She did, wordlessly, avoiding my eyes.
I leaned in, kissed her neck, then turned her face toward me, catching her lips with mine. She let me—just for a second—deepening the kiss, her tongue flickering against mine before pulling back, breathless.
“I want something sweet now,” she said.
I smirked. “Me too.”
She shot me a glare. “I meant ice cream, Lazzio.”
I got her some vanilla ice cream, drove her home, and we made out in my car until she slightly pushed me off, breathless.
I let her go.
She didn’t invited me up.
She just opened the door, gave me one last look, and left.
It had been a week since that night.
The employees had the week off for the holidays, and I hadn’t seen her—didn’t need to, or at least that’s what I told myself.
But the truth? I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Not even for a fucking second.
The minute I’d stopped seeing her face, I had felt the burn of withdrawal, and it pissed me the fuck off. I should’ve been focused on other things, like Greg.
The bastard needed to be put in his place. But even with all the shit I had to do, I couldn’t get her out of my head.
The way she’d looked at me, like she had fucking known exactly what I had been thinking. The way her body had felt against mine. The way she had moaned my name. The way she’d tasted—fuck.
So fucking sweet. So fucking mine.
Tomorrow, I’d see her again. New Year’s prep.
She’d be there, acting all annoying and sassy. And I couldn’t fucking wait.
So, for now, I focused on Greg—figuring out how to finally get rid of him.
I flew to Aspen, and found him exactly where my father had said: in his favorite casino, smoking cigars and playing poker.
“How’s your leg?” He gestured lazily to the chair across from him. “Sit, Lazzio. We have much to discuss.”
“Yeah, like the fucking ten million you stole from me—which, by the way, is pathetic for a supposed billionaire.”
He leaned back in his chair, puffing out his cigar.
“Stole? No, Lazzio. I took back what was mine. A little overdue repayment, if you ask me.”
I stepped closer.
“I doubt your actress’s life was worth that much, Greg. So tell me—what did I really take from you?”
His smirk faltered for just a second before he masked it with another puff of his cigar.
“Sit. Let’s play.”
I pulled out the chair, the legs screeching against the floor as I sat down. Greg pushed a fresh stack of chips toward me, his smirk returning as he shuffled the deck.
“You remember Lucius’s project in Boston?” he asked, dealing the cards.
I dragged my thumb across my jaw.
I fucking knew it.
That project should’ve been mine—mine to build, mine to control, mine to turn into a gold mine. But Carlos Lazzio, in all his infinite wisdom, had decided his son wasn’t “ready.”
Instead, he’d handed it off to Lucius, his friend—the one he’d trusted more than his own blood, apparently.
I could’ve fixed that problem the simple way—one bullet, one body. But Lucius wasn’t just some guy. He was like family, and killing him would’ve been suicide. My father would’ve made sure I didn’t see the sunrise.
So I had let it go, grudgingly.
But days later, the whole site had gone up in flames. Mines buried beneath the soil had detonated, ripping through the foundation like the wrath of God Himself had hit Boston.
It had been obliterated. Steel twisted into jagged ribs, concrete reduced to ash, and the mayor scrambling to assure the public there weren’t more mines waiting to blow. The contract had been canceled. The land rendered useless. A legacy turned to ashes.
Now that cursed patch of dirt sits there, untouched and unbuildable, because no one’s brave—or stupid—enough to dig and risk unearthing the rest of the mines.
“The one that burned to the ground?”
Greg laughed, a deep, nasty rasp, puffing out his cigar. “Yeah, that one. Funny, huh? A project that was supposed to be yours got fucking torched the second someone else laid their hands on it.”
I leaned back. “If you’ve got something to say, Greg, then fucking say it.”
His grin widened, cocky and slimy. “That project wasn’t just Lucius’s, Lazzio. It was mine. He was just a front, a little lapdog to wave at your old man. But me? I was the one calling the shots. I’m the one who told Carlos you weren’t ready—too young, too volatile, too much of a ticking fucking time bomb. And he believed me. Gave it to Lucius, just like I planned.”
He slapped his cards down—a king, four aces, and a queen.
“But then, one night, your dear father called me and said he’d decided to give you a chance—hand you the project.” He exhaled a puff of smoke, his grin turning venomous. “It pissed me the fuck off, so I destroyed it. Burned it to the ground.”
Jealousy truly is the devil’s favorite sin.
“That project would’ve brought me ten million. So yeah, boy, I took back what was mine. Call it overdue payment.”
I’d have killed anyone else on the spot for pulling this shit—for daring to run their mouth like they weren’t begging for a bullet.
But Greg? He wasn’t stupid.
I didn’t do messy. No crowds, no witnesses, no loose ends.
That’s why he sat there so fucking smug, lounging in that chair like it was a throne.
He knew I wouldn’t paint the walls with his blood—not here, not now.
But what Greg didn’t understand was that patience didn’t mean mercy.
I slapped my cards down—three aces.
Game over.
“The dog in all of this is you, Greg. Ten fucking years to pull this weak-ass stunt? That just proves one thing—you’re even more pathetic than I thought.”
His face twitched, the fake grin faltering just for a second.
I rose from my seat, ready to leave, but then he said something that stopped me cold.
“Turns out, the Lazzios are just pathetic cowards after all.”
I froze, then slowly turned back toward him.
Ain’t no fucking way.
A bucket of freezing water slammed into my back, jolting me awake with a shock that rattled my bones. My body jerked violently, teeth chattering as I gasped for air, trying to recover from the cold that clawed its way through me. My wrists were bound tightly behind my back, raw from the ropes, and my legs were lashed to the chair’s legs, making every movement a struggle. The cold burned, biting into my flesh, making my teeth rattle uncontrollably.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t do a damn thing except sit there, the ropes digging into my skin, my muscles stiff and sore.
A man appeared in front of me, his face hidden under a hood. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back so hard my neck screamed in protest.
“Good morning, little Lazzio,” he sneered, his voice cold and cutting. “I hope that freezing water wasn’t too much. It’s mid-August, after all. Don’t want you dying from the heat, do we?”
His laugh was hollow and dark, the kind that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t a joke—it was a taunt, a reminder that he enjoyed seeing me like this. He plopped into a chair, legs spread wide, arms crossed as though he were in charge of everything, controlling the very air in the room.
Today, he wasn’t shouting, wasn’t ranting in fury. He was calm. Too calm. It made the fear scrape deeper under my skin. There was something about his stillness, the way he carried himself, that made my stomach tighten in a way his anger never had. It was worse, so much worse.
I glanced around, searching the room for anything that could help me, anything that could be turned into a weapon, something, but it was hopeless. There was a rickety table in the corner, covered in dry bread, a bruised apple, and a nearly empty water bottle. On that table sat the Japanese knife they’d been using on me for days. The blade gleamed, cruel and sharp. Every time it cut, the pain only seemed to get worse.
It didn’t even feel like it was my body anymore—just something they were using, something to break, to destroy.
I met his eyes again, still grinning that twisted, predatory grin. He wasn’t going to stop. I knew that now. Not until he got exactly what he wanted.
He leaned in closer, his breath hitting my neck, sour and stale from cigarettes.
I fought not to gag.
“You’re tougher than I thought, little Lazzio,” he said, his voice low, like a promise of more pain to come. “But that doesn’t matter. They all break. You will too.”
I swallowed hard, the dry lump in my throat nearly choking me.
“You think your papa’s coming to save you?” he mocked, his fingers twitching as they reached behind him. “No one’s coming. You’re just a scared little boy. And scared little boys don’t last long.”
I wanted to scream at him, wanted to tell him he was wrong, but my voice wouldn’t come. My lungs burned, each breath a struggle as the weight of my fear pressed down on me, squeezing all the air from my chest.
He took a step closer, boots thudding against the cold concrete floor with every step. I could feel him closing in on me, his presence suffocating, making my heart race faster, like it was trying to escape from my chest.
“Where does Carlos keep his dirty money? His contracts with the FBI?”
“I—I don’t know,” I stammered, my words weak and broken. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. My body was too sore, my neck aching where he’d yanked it back, my hands raw and useless against the ropes.
He sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “Of course, you don’t. You don’t know shit, do you?”
His face was so close now I could feel his breath, rancid and suffocating against my skin. My neck tightened, but I couldn’t pull away. The cold steel of the knife grazed my skin, light at first, teasing, before it pressed harder, a promise of pain.
Before I could even react, the blade cut into my neck.
The pain exploded through me, sudden and blinding. A scream tore from my throat before I could stop it. It felt like fire had been poured onto my skin, like my flesh was being torn apart. I couldn’t think—only scream.
“Tell me where it is,” he repeated, his voice chillingly calm, but there was something darker underneath it. I could feel how much he wanted me to hurt. “Or I’ll make it worse.”
I shook my head, tears streaking down my face, mixing with the blood flowing down my neck. “I don’t know! I don’t know!” I choked out, my voice trembling.
But he didn’t stop. He didn’t flinch. The knife pressed deeper, and the agony was all I could feel, the world spinning around me. My chest heaved with sobs, my body shaking from the force of it.
“Turns out, the Lazzios are just pathetic cowards after all.”
And then the knife sank deeper, driven into my back.
The pain was unbearable, a fire that burned through every nerve in my body. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.
Everything was a blur of agony, of darkness closing in.
And then nothing.