Chapter 37
ROMERO
She could have died.
The thought runs rampant in my brain as I sit in the armchair I dragged across the bedroom, watching her sleep—or at least pretending to. I can’t make it stop. Can’t make it quiet down. It just keeps hammering away: she could have died, she could have died, she could have fucking died.
Her eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against skin so pale it looks white as paper. Those delicate fingers twitch every few seconds, and I find myself cataloging each movement like it’s proof that she’s still here. Still breathing. Still mine.
Christ, she looks like she’s seen death itself. Which she has, hasn’t she? Dean’s body… sprawled across the pavement with blood splattered around his head. That image is probably going to carve itself into her brain and stay there. Forever.
I should have shielded her from that.
The ache in my chest throbs painfully as I think about just how close I had been to losing her. If Dean hadn’t caught on to what was happening, hadn’t thrown himself in front of her at exactly the right moment, it would have been her brain decorating that courthouse pavement.
What the hell was she even doing there? But this isn’t the time to ask.
She’s not herself.
Not that I expected her to remain the same after what just happened.
She hasn’t said much since the car ride. Since those gut-wrenching sobs tore out of her throat in the back seat with the blood all over her dress, her shoes. My shirt.
Each cry felt like she was ripping pieces off my soul, shredding me from the inside out.
My eyes drift to her arm, still wrapped tightly in my jacket to stem the bleeding, but I can’t unsee what it looked like when the blood had gushed out. That could’ve been her throat. Her chest. If she hadn’t had her hands raised up, waving at me, it would have been her skull. One inch higher and—
No. Fuck no, I’m not going there. Stop.
Limbs jittery, I shoot up from the chair, pacing the room like a caged animal. I can’t sit. Can’t breathe properly. Can’t think straight.
How the hell did I let this happen? How did I get so fucking careless?
I’d brought her into my world, married her, claimed her publicly—thinking the ring would protect her. Thinking I could protect her. That nobody would be reckless enough to make a move on my wife.
But someone just did.
Because I was too confident. Too blinded by my arrogance. Too sure my name would be enough to stop any fool.
What a joke. What a goddamn joke.
And then it hit me like a punch to the gut. I’ve come to care about her.
Too much.
Somewhere between getting her out of jail, pretending to be in love, between our conversations, her smart mouth, and her unwavering faith and trust in me, I’d fallen for her.
Fuck.
This is the worst possible time to discover I have a heart.
But I guess almost losing someone—someone who matters—has a brutal way of stripping away all your comfortable lies and showing you exactly what they mean to you.
“Have Ethan and Amelia brought here,” I order Sandro when he walks into the bedroom with Blake, the private doctor I keep on payroll for situations like this. “She needs to see them. Do it quickly.”
He nods, phone already in hand, and disappears back through the doorway. My attention shifts to Blake as he approaches the bed, moving carefully towards Leni.
When my wife finally blinks her eyes open, the emptiness I see in them clamps down on my throat.
Fucking hell.
She doesn’t speak as Blake introduces himself, doesn’t flinch when he opens his medical bag on the mattress beside her. Just stares through him, through me, while he works on her arm, cleaning and bandaging like she’s a mannequin instead of the vibrant woman I married.
By the time Blake finishes, declaring she needs rest but will be fine, her family is already waiting outside the bedroom. She doesn’t react when they walk in. Doesn’t smile at Ethan, doesn’t roll her eyes at her mother. She just keeps staring past them with those dead, red-rimmed eyes.
I pull them aside, speaking in low tones as I bring them up to date about what happened. Their faces go through the same cycle mine did—shock, horror, rage. Amelia’s hand flies to her mouth. Ethan looks like he wants to put his fist through the wall.
Join the club.
“Take care of her,” I finish quietly, hating how helpless I sound.
My gaze drifts back to Leni. She’s closed her eyes again, still pretending we don’t exist, and I have to swallow the lump in my throat before nodding Ethan over.
Once he’s moving towards his sister, I fix Amelia with a warning stare. “Don’t upset her.”
The thin woman bristles, her clear gray eyes flashing like I’ve offended her. But I don’t give her a chance to argue. I’m already walking away, leaving them to do what I can’t—bring Leni back to herself.
I have shit to do. Someone needs to pay for putting that emptiness in her eyes.
The stairs disappear under my feet as I take them three at a time, heading straight for my office, where Sandro is waiting with a bottle of scotch already uncapped. He pours a generous measure into a tumbler, sliding it across my desk as I settle into my chair.
I don’t touch it. Won’t. As tempting as it is, I don’t deserve the relief alcohol might give me. Not until I find the bastard who dared to aim a gun at my wife.
She’s safe now. But next time she might not be. I can’t leave it to chance. I’ll paint this entire goddamn city red if that’s what it takes to make every low-life scumbag understand that my wife is off-limits. Permanently.
“Pull every name,” I tell Sandro, already dialing the best hacker I know. “Street rats, old debts—start with the ones who hate me most. No one makes a move like that without someone backing them.”
Michael picks up on the second ring, and I turn away from Sandro. “I need CCTV footage from the Southern District courthouse parking lot,” I say without preamble. “Send me the feeds starting from two hours ago.”
He doesn’t waste time with questions. The urgency in my voice tells him everything he needs to know. Questions can come later, after he delivers what I need.
After our call, I log into my laptop and check my own CCTV feeds—around my compound, the gates, and surrounding streets.
Someone had been watching my house, then trailed Leni to the courthouse. That’s the only plausible explanation, because her trip there wasn’t planned. I didn't even know about it.
It doesn’t take long to find my culprit.
Four hours and a trail of favors, bribes, and threats later, I have a name:
Mikkel Verona.
My pulse drops to a steady, dangerous rhythm. Finally, I reach for that tumbler of scotch, gripping the glass tight as I take a controlled sip.
The same bastard who killed her father.
The same bastard who’s been in touch with Amelia recently.
“Track him,” I order Sandro. I’ve had someone watching him the past few days, so it shouldn’t be hard.
Sandro winches. “He ran. Bart lost him an hour ago—probably bolted the second he heard the hit failed.”
Of course he did. Cowards never stay around to finish what they started.
“Good,” I say, voice cold. “Then he’ll be easier to flush out. I want access to every camera, every alley, every burner phone he's ever touched. I want to know exactly what sewer he’s hiding in.”
Because the next time I see Mikkel Verona will be the last time he draws breath. But not quickly. Not cleanly. First, I’ll make sure he and everybody else in this godforsaken city understands what it means to put their hands on something of mine.
“What about the piece of shit who fired the shot?”
“The men are already taking him to the inn,” Sandro answers.
“Perfect.” He was just following orders, but he’s still going to pay. Before that, though— “Bring me Amelia.”
Sandro’s brows hike up, and he studies me with obvious concern. “Are you sure? You’re not in a good mood right now, and you might do—”
The glass shatters in my hand before I realize I’ve squeezed too hard, spilling the rest of the scotch across my desk and laptop, the alcohol burning my palm where the shards slice into my skin. “Fucking bring her to me.”
“She’s still your wife’s mother,” Sandro says carefully, like he’s talking to a rabid dog. “No matter what, I don’t think she’d have had a hand in this. Take it easy with her, Romero.”
I give him a look that could strip paint, and he curses under his breath as he storms out to fetch her.
I’m well aware that as Leni’s mother there’s only so much I can do to the darned witch. That’s why she’s coming to my office instead of joining the shooter at the inn. I just want to talk. See how much she knows—if she knows anything at all.
The insistent bite in my palm cools the worst of my anger, so I leave the shards where they are for now, letting the pain ground me.
When Amelia walks into my office, her eyes go straight to the mess on my desk—broken glass, spilled liquor, the blood dripping from my clenched fist. Then she looks at me, and whatever she sees in my face makes her flinch.
“The shot today was meant to kill Leni,” I start coolly, and she flinches again. Good. “Want to guess who made the order? Your good friend Mikkel Verona.”
She blanches. “What–no, you must be mistaken, you must—”
“Verona gave the order,” I repeat, harsher this time. “I understand you’ve been in touch with him.” It’s not a question, but she rushes to answer anyway.
“Mikkel has been so good to me since John’s death.” An unreadable expression flashes, then shutters as she wrings her hands together. “He was even kind enough to speak with the loan sharks to lend me and Ethan some money when we were desperate and—”
“You didn’t think he had an agenda? Loaning you—a known drug addict—and a minor money you both had no hope of ever paying back?”
“What agenda? Why would he—”
“Think, Amelia. When the loan came due, what did they want?” My voice grates with impatience.
She frowns, confusion clouding her features before clarity hits. “They wanted Leni to work at their strip club.” Her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “But Mikkel didn't own that loan company, so how could he be involved with—”
“He does own the company. He lied to you.”
The transformation is immediate and volcanic. Rage floods her face, turning those gray eyes dark. “That motherfucker. I’m going to kill him.”
My brows hike up at that.
She’s not pretending. This is real anger.
In her own twisted, broken way, she does care about her daughter.
“Not if I get to him first.” I narrow my gaze on her. “You are going back to rehab. You’ve done enough.”