Chapter 19 #2
Luciano’s eyes flick toward me as if checking how close I am to snapping, then drift back to the table.
He continues without giving anyone room to interrupt.
“We’ve already started reviewing every access point and every staff record.
From cleaners to kitchen boys to night security, no one is getting in or out without being checked.
You have my word. Whoever targeted her,” his gaze shifts to me, “will pay for it.”
He pauses for a beat, giving the words space to settle, and I feel the heat in my chest spike again, that familiar pulse of anger that burns slow and steady, the kind I can’t show here unless I want someone’s head rolling on the table.
My jaw ticks slightly, but I nod. I want him to handle it, because if I do, it won’t be clean.
The meeting lasts another fifteen minutes, dealing with security briefings, names, threats, a few small arguments that go nowhere.
When we step out of the meeting room, the tension hasn’t even settled before Declan—the loudest of the Irishmen—claps his hands together with a grin that’s already irritating, the kind that tells me he’s been waiting for an excuse to shift the mood.
“So,” he says, too cheerful for a man who just heard someone tried to kill my fiancée, “we go out tonight. A little fun, eh?”
Boris exhales hard, rolling his eyes like he’s heard this a hundred times and still hasn’t found the strength to care. “Fun?” he repeats. “You mean the club with the girls.”
“Of course,” Declan answers proudly, puffing his chest like he personally owns the place. “They bring in new ones every week. Perfect for… inspection.”
The smile he gives after that is so sleazy it turns my stomach, that kind of grin men get when they forget girls are human, and I feel a familiar irritation climb the back of my spine.
Behind us, Mikhail snorts under his breath, loud enough for Marco to hear. “It’s gonna be wild,” he mutters, not bothering to sugarcoat anything, not even glancing at Marco as he says it.
Marco only shrugs.
“We’ll go check things out,” Boris says, already pulling out his cigarette case. “Make sure everything is running the way it should.”
Normally I’d refuse. I don’t do outings like this, especially not with my patience already hanging by a thread.
“I’m not leaving her alone,” I say, my voice low but final.
“Then bring her,” Enzo says casually.
I hate the idea of taking her somewhere like that, a place that stinks of sweat and cheap perfume and desperation that these men consider entertainment but leaving her in the hotel after last night feels worse.
My mind runs through every possible scenario, every risk, every angle of vulnerability—the hallways, the elevators, the staff access doors—and none of them feel safer than her being within arm’s reach.
“She’s coming with me. I will conduct the business I have there and then leave. But you are all more than welcome to stay and have fun,” I say.
Raffaele’s grin sharpens. “Whipped already, eh?” he says, his voice light but his eyes mean. “Careful, Artyom, she’ll tighten that leash around your throat if you’re not watching.”
His mouth is still curling around the last word when I feel the snap in my chest, a hot spark of violence that comes before thought.
One second I’m standing a few paces away from him; the next I’ve crossed the space so fast the air moves around me. I grab him by the collar and slam him back into the marble wall hard enough that the picture frame above him rattles.
His eyes go wide as my hand closes around his throat, fingers digging into the flesh the way a vise closes around metal. He chokes, boots scraping against the floor as he tries to find footing.
“Say it again,” I growl, my face inches from his. “Say it again and see how fast I take your tongue out of your mouth.”
He sputters, grabbing at my wrist, trying to pry my fingers loose. His face turns red, veins popping along his temple, the sound of his labored breath filling the room.
Mikhail is the only one who steps forward.
“That’s enough,” he says calmly.
I ignore him.
Raffaele tries to wheeze something—an apology maybe—but I tighten my grip. The room closes in. My pulse pounds hard enough I can hear it in my ears. A flash of last night hits me, the fear in Kira’s eyes, and the rage swells again.
I lean in, my hand tightening so hard his boots lift off the ground for a second.
“You mock me again,” I say, my voice low, deadly calm, “and I’ll kill you. You speak her name again with that tone, and I’ll make sure they never find your body. Understand?”
His lips move but no sound comes out. He nods violently instead.
Mikhail puts a hand on my shoulder. “Artyom. He’s done.”
I hold another second, just to make sure he will never forget it, then I release him. Raffaele gasps, stumbling to his knees, coughing hard, clutching his throat with both hands. His face is the color of raw meat.
I straighten my shirt and glance at him once.
“You should be careful,” I say quietly.
Mikhail guides me back with a firm hand, muttering under his breath, “You almost killed him.”
Behind us, the room remains silent. No one jokes now. No one even breathes too loudly. Every man in that lobby understands exactly what I meant and exactly how close Raffaele came to dying with his back against that marble wall.
Mikhail keeps a hand on my shoulder for another second, mostly to make sure I’m done and not because he thinks he can actually stop me if I decide otherwise. When he finally lets go, I roll my neck once, slow, releasing the last crack of tension, and straighten my shirt.
I turn away from all of them and start walking across the lobby.
My shoes hit the marble with slow, controlled steps, but the anger is still running underneath my skin, hot and steady, making my hands curl into fists without me realizing it.
I reach the elevator and jab the button harder than I need to, my reflection staring back at me in the polished metal of the doors.
And the only thought left in my head is simple: I need to see her.