Chapter Nine
Lorenzo
“Get up, asshole.”
The loud, grating voice cuts through the haze of sleep, but I ignore it, turning over and trying to fall back under.
“Lorenzo! Get the fuck up. We need to talk.”
The voice gets closer, more persistent. I crack one eye open, groaning when I see it’s Andres standing there with Francesco, my lawyer. I glance at the clock: 7 a.m.
Seven fucking a.m.
These people seriously have nothing better to do than disturb me this early?
“Fuck off, Andres,” I growl, pulling the blanket over my head.
“Lorenzo, it’s important. We need to talk,” Francesco says, his voice calm but firm.
“You too, Francesco.” My tone is sharp, cutting. I don’t have the patience for this right now. I barely slept last night, and whatever they’re here for can wait.
“Son,” Francesco starts, a note of urgency slipping into his voice as he makes himself comfortable at the edge of my bed. “We got important information from Lucy.”
The mention of Lucy jolts me awake. I sit up immediately, the haze of sleep burning away in an instant.
“What do we know?” I snap, swinging my legs out of bed and standing, my focus locked on him.
I step closer to Francesco, my mind already racing. He’s been with me since I took over the Moretti Empire. My father’s lawyer first, he saw me grow up, watched as I went from a reckless kid to… well, this.
Since my father’s death, Francesco has been my lifeline. He’s kept me out of trouble, smoothed over the messes I’ve made, and pulled me out of jail more times than I care to count, all without the media catching wind of it.
There aren’t many men I trust, but Francesco is one of them.
Besides Andres, Francesco has been the closest thing I’ve had to family. At 50 years old, the man takes better care of himself than most in their 30s. Sure, his hair is grey, but he never misses a day at the gym. He’s almost as tall and massive as me. Almost.
“The good news is that Lucy is working,” Andres says, his eyes glued to his phone.
God knows what he’s looking at, but his tone is too serious for it to be trivial.
“I still need time to get all the information and fully hack their system so I can access everything smoothly, but the hard work is done.”
He doesn’t look up, his thumb scrolling as he continues, “However, while reviewing the data we’ve already pulled from Lucy, we found an interesting statement.”
He glances up at me, his expression unreadable at first, but then something unusual flickers in his eyes. Concern?
What the fuck is going on?
“Stop being dramatic, Rivera. What statement?” I snap, rolling my eyes as I walk over to the coffee machine. Pouring myself a cup, I brace for whatever bullshit he’s about to drop.
Andres isn’t usually one to let emotions show, which makes the look he’s giving me now all the more unsettling. Whatever he’s about to say is important.
He finally looks up, his voice calm but pointed.
“Thomas Beaumont.”
The name hits me like a punch, the air in the room growing heavier.
The Attorney General.
“What about him?” I demand, my eyes darting between Andres and Francesco. Both of them look as confused as I feel, which only fuels my frustration.
Andres hesitates for a moment before speaking. “He gave a statement to the police on the day your father died,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, as if he’s testing how much to tell me.
A cold silence settles over the room as his words hang in the air.
“I don’t have the full details yet,” he continues cautiously. “Lucy’s powerful, but it’s slow as fuck. What I do know is that when your father died, Thomas Beaumont gave a statement.”
I freeze.
What the fuck?
My father died of a heart attack. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. Why the fuck would Thomas Beaumont feel the need to give a statement to the police on the day of his death?
The thought twists in my gut, cold and sharp, a feeling I can’t shake.
Francesco steps closer, his presence calm but heavy, and places a firm hand on my shoulder. “Son,” he says, his voice steady but probing. “What do you really know about your father’s death?”
I meet his gaze, but my mind is elsewhere, spiraling back to the worst day of my life.
I’m trying to piece it all together, to remember the fragments of what I was told back then. To find something, anything, that makes sense of this.
“Not much,” I admit, my voice quiet but sharp. The memory feels distant, like a haze I can’t fully shake. “I was at a party when my father died. Dante, my uncle, called me and told me to come home as soon as possible. No explanation, just urgency.”
I pause, my eyes falling to the faint scar on my hand. The mark feels heavier now, a reminder of a different life, a different time.
“When I got home, my mother was crying. She hugged me like her world had ended. She was… devastated,” I continue, my voice lowering as the scene plays out in my mind. “She told me he’d had a heart attack. That he’d been preparing his testament for years, just in case something happened to him.”
I glance at Francesco, then at Andres, my tone sharpening again. “And just like that, I was named the one to run the Moretti Estate after his death.”
“That’s when she called me,” Francesco adds, stepping into the conversation.
His voice is calm, but the words are loaded with weight.
“I remember it clearly, your mother called me immediately that day to handle the paperwork and ensure the full ownership of the Moretti Estate was transferred to you.”
He pauses, his gaze steady as he looks at me. “You became the CEO of the company just a few hours after your father died.”
The room feels colder now, the implications of his words hanging in the air.
A few hours.
Why the rush?
“Yeah,” I confirm, running a hand through my hair, the motion doing nothing to ease the sudden heat in the room. Why does it feel like the walls are closing in?
“Why does this matter?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended. My eyes dart between Francesco and Andres. “Do you think my father’s death wasn’t natural? That Beaumont had something to do with it?”
The words leave my mouth before I can decide if I even want the answer.
Andres stands with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes, doubt? Hesitation?
“I don’t know what to say right now,” he admits, his tone measured, calculated. “I need to find out more before jumping to conclusions.”
His gaze locks with mine, steady and deliberate. “I wanted to tell you first. It seemed… important. If it were me, I’d want to know.”
I don’t respond. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.
What the fuck happened? Did my father piss off the Attorney General so badly that he had him killed?
The thought twists in my gut, sharp and sour.
Francesco clears his throat, his usual smooth confidence faltering for just a second. He adjusts his tie, nervous habit, one I’ve clocked a thousand times before, and flips open his laptop, eyes glued to the screen.
“We need to talk about your release.” His voice is steady, professional, but I know him too well to miss the tightness in his jaw. He’s been with me long enough to know this isn’t just business. This is personal.
He scrolls through files, tapping the trackpad with quick, practiced movements. His fingers don’t shake, but I know his mind is racing. He doesn’t like the game I’m playing. Not this time.
“Even though the plan was two weeks…” he begins, eyes flicking up to meet mine, “we technically have enough. The system’s cracked, Lucy is running better than expected.
We’ve gathered more intel than we thought we would.
” His lips press into a line. “And the feds? They’ve got nothing. No charges that’ll stick.”
He closes the laptop softly, folding his hands in front of him like he’s trying to smooth out the situation.
“I can get you out today.” His words hang heavy in the air. There’s a pause, a small crack in his mask of composure.
“Are you ready to come back?” He tries to sound like this is good news, like I’ve won. But his eyes are sharper than his tone. He knows me. He knows what’s coming.
I lean back in the chair, letting my head tilt just slightly to the side. Relaxed. Dangerous. Like a lion flicking its tail before it pounces.
“No.”
His jaw shifts, but he doesn’t interrupt me.
“You said we needed two weeks to get Lucy fully operational,” I remind him, my voice low, calm, controlled. “That hasn’t changed.”
I stare past him for a moment, and then I see her. Her face flashes in my mind like a cruel trick of fate. Those lips, soft, perfect, fucking sinful. And that attitude, sharp enough to cut, daring enough to make me want to break it just to see what’s underneath.
There’s more to her, I can feel it in my bones. Secrets buried under all that fire, truths that will claw their way out if I push hard enough. But I won’t find them from the outside. Not yet.
No, first I need to pull her closer. To tear at the edges, watch her unravel piece by piece. I need to ruin her, just a little, before I walk away.
“I’m staying,” I continue, my tone final. “Another week. Maybe more.”
Francesco exhales quietly, but he doesn’t argue. That’s why I keep him around, he’s smart. Loyal. Knows when to push, and when to back the fuck off.
“I trust you’ll handle the rest,” I add, voice soft but loaded.
Francesco and Andres exchange glances, their brows furrowing in unison, confusion plain on their faces.
Andres sniffs the air, a grin tugging at his lips. “Are you fucking smoking marijuana?” he asks, laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all day.
I don’t bother answering his last question. Instead, I take a slow drag from my cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling like I have all the fucking time in the world.
“I still need my three sessions a week with Serena.” Her name rolls off my tongue like silk laced with poison, and the smirk that curls my lips is deliberate. A low chuckle escapes me, quiet but sharp, sarcasm slicing clean through the air.
Francesco raises a brow, but he knows better than to question me. He snaps his laptop shut, his eyes giving nothing away.
“That’s fine,” he says simply, his voice flat. Professional.
Smart man.
I lean back, satisfied, my mind already five steps ahead. I watch Andres move toward the door, but I stop him before he can disappear.
“Andres.” My voice cuts through the room like a blade. He freezes, hand on the handle. “I’m going to need your help with the cameras soon.”
The grin that spreads across my face is slow, dark, almost predatory. I don’t have to explain what I mean. He knows exactly what I’m planning.
He glances back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing.
“Don’t do anything fucking stupid over pussy,” he mutters, half a warning, half a plea, before he walks out.
I let him go. He knows me well enough to know I won’t listen.
The cigarette burns between my fingers, the ember glowing red in the dim light as I stare at the wall, thinking about her.
It’s been a few days since I first met Serena Beaumont. Since she walked into this fucking cage, acting like she could fix me, like she could untangle the monster that lives under my skin.
Poor thing.
Sweet.
Innocent.
So fucking breakable.
And that’s exactly why I chose her.
I’ve made her my distraction in here, my little game while I play the bigger one.
Watching her squirm under my gaze is the best part of this whole fucking stay.
The way her cheeks flush when I get too close, the way her breath hitches when I ask her questions no psychologist should ever have to answer.
She’s a puzzle I intend to solve, piece by piece, layer by layer, until she’s mine to play with however I want.
And make no mistake.
I will have her.