8. Lucrezia
Chapter 8
Lucrezia
T he neon sign above Tate’s buzzes faintly, flickering like a dying star against the darkening sky. The “Closed” placard hangs lopsided on the glass door, but the latch isn’t locked, just turned to keep out the casual wanderer. I press my palm to the cool glass and push it open, bells tied around the handle slamming against the glass obnoxiously as I step inside.
Kristopher stands behind the bar, his back to me, hunched over a glass he’s polishing with the kind of obsessive focus that makes me wonder if he even heard the bells. The white cloth circles endlessly over the crystal, his broad shoulders tense beneath his pressed white shirt. He doesn’t turn; he just growls, “We’re closed,” in a voice that hasn’t changed since the last time we spoke.
I let the door close behind me with a deliberate thud, leaning against it with a smile that’s equal parts nostalgic and bitter. “Good. I’m not here for a drink.” My voice echoes slightly in the empty bar, bouncing off the polished surfaces and rows of bottles lining the wall.
Kristopher freezes, the glass and cloth in his hands going still as marble. For a moment, he doesn’t move, and I wonder if he’s forgotten how to breathe. Then, slowly, deliberately, like a man moving underwater, he turns. His eyes meet mine, wide with disbelief and something deeper—pain, maybe, or regret—and for a split second, I see the man who helped me with my earliest revenge plot against Saverio, the man who stalked Lucia Terlizzi at my behest.
“Lucrezia.” My name falls from his lips like a prayer, reverent and disbelieving all at once. His knuckles whiten around the glass he’s still holding as if he needs something solid to anchor himself to reality.
He steps around the bar with a pronounced limp, but his pace quickens with every step until he’s standing in front of me. Before I can prepare myself, his arms are around me, pulling me into a hug so tight it knocks the air from my lungs. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispers into my hair, his voice thick with emotion.
For a moment, I let myself relax into Kristopher’s embrace, the scent of him grounding me. But then his hands linger a little too long on my back, and his grip tightens, turning from comforting to possessive. When he pulls away, he doesn’t let go entirely, his hands sliding to my shoulders as he looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“You haven’t changed,” he says softly, his gaze roaming my face with an almost unsettling adoration. His thumb brushes against my cheekbone, making me suppress a shudder. “You’re still beautiful. Italy couldn’t take that away from you. If anything, you look even more radiant now.”
I force a smile, stepping out of his grip and putting a careful distance between us. “You’ve changed,” I counter, gesturing to his limp. The way he favors his leg is impossible to miss. “What happened?”
His expression darkens, a shadow passing over his features as he adjusts his weight slightly. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides. “When Saverio found out about what I’d done to Lucia, he wanted to make sure I’d never forget him. Three surgeries later, and I still wake up some mornings barely able to walk.”
“Well,” I say lightly, “at least you’ve got a nice place here. It suits you.” I gesture at the worn but clean surfaces and the carefully arranged bottles behind the bar. This is everything he talked about wanting; it’s where I funneled a quarter of a million dollars of my own trust fund in order to destroy Saverio. And it didn’t even work.
Kristopher snorts, a bitter laugh that lacks humor. His fingers drum against the edge of a nearby table. “It’s a bar, Lux. Not much else to say about it. Just another place for people to drink away their problems.”
“It’s yours,” I reply, holding his gaze. “That’s what matters. You built this place from nothing, and you made it into something real.” Even if it was my money that got him here, it was his hard work that turned a decrepit building into a thriving bar. I’ve read the reviews online; people love Tate’s.
For a moment, the bitterness in Kristopher’s eyes softens, replaced by something warmer, almost hopeful. The change transforms his whole face, making him look more like the man I used to know. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice quiet but insistent. His fingers have stopped their restless tapping, and his full attention is focused on me.
“I need your help,” I say simply, the words falling into the space between us like a stone dropped into a still pond.
His brows furrow and he leans back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. The defensive posture isn’t lost on me, nor is the way his shoulders tense. “With what?” A look crosses his face that tells me he’s remembering what happened the last time he helped me. He might have gotten a bar out of the deal, but he also got a brand new limp, too.
“I want you to help me take Saverio down.”
The silence that follows is heavy and oppressive, punctuated only by the faint hum of music playing over the speakers. Kristopher stares at me, the muscles in his neck visibly tensing. “You’re serious,” he says finally, his tone unreadable, though something dark flickers behind his eyes.
“Dead serious,” I reply, stepping closer to him, close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne. “I’m building an army, and I need you. No one hates the Castiglione family like you and me. When we work together, we’re unstoppable.”
His lips twitch into a bitter smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. The expression carries years of history, of wounds that haven’t quite healed. “Am I the first person you’ve come to about this?”
Little white lies are a necessary evil, especially when dealing with someone as unpredictable as Kristopher. “Yes. I also plan to seek out Daniela, and the Destroyers. They hate Saverio with the same burning passion we do. I’m sure they’ll help us—they’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for years.”
A twisted smile graces Kristopher’s lips. “Us,” he repeats, drawing out the word like savoring a fine wine, “I like the sound of that.” His dark eyes gleam with renewed purpose, a predator catching the scent of prey.
“You’ve always been resourceful, Kris,” I say, keeping my tone steady and purposefully flattering. “You know Manhattan better than any of us. You have connections I can’t reach. And you hate Saverio as much as I do. Maybe even more.” I doubt that, but he needs to be flattered.
His expression hardens, muscles tensing beneath his shirt as his hands clench into white-knuckled fists at his sides. “The motherfucker shattered my kneecap,” he growls, the venom in his voice sending an icy chill racing down my spine. “He left me bleeding out in my own living room. And now you want me to go up against him again ? After everything that happened last time?”
“I want you to go up against him for us,” I say firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “For everything he’s taken from us. For everyone he’s hurt. This time will be different; we’ll make sure of it.”
Kristopher’s eyes soften slightly, his anger giving way to something else—something darker and more possessive. “You know I’d do anything for you, Lux. Anything .”
The way he says it makes my stomach twist into a familiar knot of anxiety. I take a step back, forcing a smile that feels brittle on my face. “Good. Then we’ll start planning.”
But he doesn’t move. Instead, he steps closer, eliminating the distance I just created, his voice dropping to a low murmur that seems to caress the air between us like a lover. “You don’t know what it’s been like without you. Every day has felt like a lifetime. I thought about you constantly.” His eyes trace over my features like he’s memorizing them all over again.
“Kristopher—” I start, my voice catching in my throat, but he cuts me off, the intensity of his presence making the room feel suddenly too small.
“Do you remember the night before you left?” he asks, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. “The way you smelled—peaches and saltwater. I’ll never forget it. The way your hair caught the moonlight through the window, the way your skin felt against mine. Every detail is burned into my memory.”
A chill runs down my spine, and I force a laugh, brushing past him toward the bar. My fingers trail along the polished wood, seeking something solid to keep me grounded. “You always did have a sharp memory. Sometimes too sharp for your own good.”
The last night we saw one another is burned into my memory, too, but not with the same zealous obsession that it is in his. While he clings to every sensory detail like a drowning man to driftwood, I’ve tried my best to let those memories fade to watercolors, soft around the edges and deliberately unclear. Sometimes late at night, they still creep in—unwanted and unbidden—but I push them away before they can take root.
“Some things are worth remembering,” he replies, his voice soft but insistent. There’s a weight to his words that threatens to drag me back into memories I’ve fought hard to bury.
I turn to face him, keeping the bar between us as I search for an exit from this conversation. My hands grip the edge of the counter, steadying myself. “Thank you for agreeing to help. I’ll be in touch with the details.” The words come out clipped and professional, a shield against the dangerous pull of feelings I will never return, feelings that shouldn’t exist.
Kristopher nods slowly, his gaze never leaving mine, eyes dark with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “I’ll do whatever you need, Lucrezia. Just promise me you won’t disappear again.” The raw emotion in his voice makes the request sound more like a plea.
“I promise,” I lie, my voice steady despite the unease coiling in my stomach. The words taste bitter on my tongue, but they’re necessary—a small deception to keep things moving forward.
As I step outside, the cold night air hits me like a slap, clearing away the stuffy atmosphere of the bar and the weight of Kristopher’s stare. I take a deep breath, trying to shake the lingering discomfort from our conversation, watching my exhale form clouds in the frigid air. Pulling out my phone, I dial Raiden’s number, my fingers trembling slightly as I press the call button. The screen’s blue glow illuminates my face as I wait, counting each ring like heartbeats in the darkness.
He answers on the second ring, his voice gruff but awake, like he’s been expecting the call. “Yeah?”
“About that offer to stay at your place,” I say, my voice steady. “Is it still on the table?”
There’s a pause, and I can hear men and women in the background. But after a long moment, Raiden responds, “Yeah. The guest room’s yours. I’ll, uh, I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Thanks,” I breathe a sigh of relief, ending the call and glancing back at Tate’s. The neon sign flickers ominously, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement like skeletal fingers reaching into the night. Turning away, I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking back to my car. The weight of Kristopher’s obsession is heavy on my shoulders, but I need him. That wasn’t a lie.
For now, I have his loyalty. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s going to cost me more than I’m willing to pay, like a deal with the devil written in invisible ink, terms and conditions yet to be revealed.