Chapter Thirteen
Lorenzo
She cancelled all our appointments last week. I don’t have time for this. I need to go back. I’ve been rotting in this cage for weeks now.
Nine days since I made her beg for something she swore she didn’t want. Nine days since she stormed out, her pride bruised and her thighs trembling. She hasn’t touched me since, not physically, not even a glance that lasted too long, but I still feel her under my skin.
The cold showers don’t work anymore.
At night, I sleep on a mattress that might as well be ice, thinking it’ll numb me, dull this ache she branded into me.
It doesn't. I still wake up hard, still imagine her voice cracking as she whispered yes, please. It’s infuriating.
She's become a distraction I didn’t ask for, and I’ve tried to push her away. God knows I’ve tried.
But she keeps coming back. Professional. Cold. Pretending like her mouth didn’t drop open when I pressed myself against her. Pretending like she didn’t drip down my hand while counting my name.
She walks in every time in those skirts that hug her curves like sin.
Glasses perched on her nose like she’s some kind of authority, like she has control.
I always greet her the same way, with a smirk, a compliment, something vulgar whispered just low enough to make her flinch.
And every single time, I catch it: the heat in her eyes, the way her thighs shift under the table.
She hates herself for wanting me.
Almost as much as I hate that I fucking love it.
Our sessions have become a game. She brings her notepad and her tight-ass professionalism, asks questions she hopes I’ll answer.
Half of them are irrelevant, shallow. And when she gets bold, when she dares ask about who I work for, about deals and names, I can see her shaking behind that rehearsed detachment.
Like she doesn’t know she’s playing in a league that would eat her alive.
She even had the audacity to bring up Ian. Ian will protect you if you cooperate, she said.
I almost laughed.
Imagine thinking Ian Archibald could make me a deal.
Imagine thinking he holds a single card at this table.
Her voice said strategy, but her eyes said desperation.
The moment his name left her mouth, I cut her off and told her to get the fuck out.
I couldn’t even look at her. Because rage doesn’t sit well with me. It burns, and when it burns, I destroy.
And I’ve got enough to handle without her becoming another liability.
Kirill is losing control of the Russians’ external channels, and Andres says Lev’s behavior is becoming erratic.
I already suspected it. Lev was always two bad decisions away from becoming a problem, and now I’m the only one who can keep him in check.
He respects me, barely, but that fear won’t last if I sit behind these bars any longer.
My time here is up. The games, the cameras, the farce of containment, it ends now.
And as for Serena... she's trying so hard to pretend this never happened. But her act is cracked. And I always find the cracks.
She thinks she’s safe because she’s put up walls.
But I’ve already slipped through them.
I pull out my phone and shoot a quick message to Francesco:
Me: Send Andres. Now.
The second I hit send, I light a cigarette and stretch out in the leather chair.
Being in this private unit, what they generously call a cell, has its perks.
It's more of a high-security suite than a prison room. One that comes with a real mattress, decent scotch, and access to the outside world... if you know who to pay. The door’s always unlocked, for “security reasons,” they say.
I say it’s so they can monitor every step I take.
Not that it matters. They still don't know who’s really pulling the strings here.
A shadow crosses the threshold.
And there he is. Ian Archibald. In the flesh. That face of his, entitled, polished, crawling with daddy’s privilege, makes my blood itch. I lean back in the chair, taking another drag, already imagining how satisfying it would be to break his nose.
“Do you have anything on John?” he asks.
No greeting. No buildup. Straight to the point, but still too afraid to say the full name out loud. Typical. I cock an eyebrow, pretending I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“John Archibald. My father.”
There it is. The crack. He’s pissed, but hiding it poorly.
I blow out a thin stream of smoke.
“Yeah. He’s pretty shit at chess.”
He flinches, his jaw tight, but doesn’t bite back.
Wise. He’s come for something he can’t take by force.
Of course I have a file on his father. That bastard’s name lives in reports I’ve paid good money to keep buried.
Rape. Abuse. Trafficking. More than a dozen reports from women, all buried.
He’s not a man. He’s a rabid animal in a silk tie.
But I don’t say that. Not yet.
“I’ll buy it.” His voice cuts through the air, sharp but shaking underneath.
I almost laugh.
“How much do you want?” he adds, desperate.
I smirk. This little prince thinks this is about money? He forgets who he’s dealing with.
“I’m a billionaire,” I say flatly. Cold. Final.
He doesn’t speak for a moment. His fingers twitch slightly, and that stupid vein in his temple is starting to show again. I can practically hear his ego crumbling.
“What do you want then?” he snaps.
There it is.
I lean forward slowly, meeting his gaze head-on, letting my voice drop to something deadly.
“Keep your eyes off her.” He stiffens like I just stabbed him.
“Who?” he barks, already knowing the answer.
I don’t flinch. “You know.”
And just like that, his temper hits the edge. Rage flickers in his expression, barely controlled. I can see it in the way his hand hovers near his gun, the way he tries not to lunge across the room. He turns on his heel and storms out before he does something stupid, like die.
I smirk.
Fragile little thing.
I take another drag, relaxing back into the chair, and pull out my phone. Open Instagram. Her profile, of course.
Books. Coffee. Candids with her overhyped best friend. Stupid reels and even stupider comments flooding in from desperate little fanboys who think they stand a chance. I scroll through them lazily, my thumb pausing on a photo of her reading in bed, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder.
Pathetic.
They don’t even know what she looks like when she moans.
I send Andres a message.
“Flag every male commenter. Pull their handles. I want names.” Because while she plays pretend with her coffee and soft girl quotes, she still belongs to me.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
"Why the fuck would I do that?" Andres leans in the doorway like he owns the place, a cigarette already hanging off his lips. Classic. I don’t even need to ask if Francesco passed along the message, I can tell by the smirk on his face that he knows exactly why he’s here.
"For fuck’s sake, just do it," I mutter, voice flat with boredom.
I’m not in the mood to explain myself. Not now. Not when my blood's still simmering from scrolling through her damn Instagram. Every idiot flooding her comments with hearts and fire emojis like they have a fucking chance.
He watches me, eyes too sharp. He knows. Of course he fucking knows.
"It’s time for you to come home, Lorenzo." He exhales smoke like a threat. ‘We’ve got problems. The Colombians are stirring shit again.’
I scoff, dragging a hand down my face. "You’re a fucking Colombian. Can’t you deal with your people?"
He shrugs. "Kirill doesn’t want me involved. Too close. It’s on you."
Of course it is. Everything is.
"Is Lucy running smooth?" I ask, steering the conversation back to what matters.
"Is she in their systems?"
He nods. "She’s fully operational. We’ve already pulled most of what we need. Even if they find the device, it’s too late. Their security’s a joke."
He flicks through his phone, lazy but confident. Typical Andres.
"Good." I lean back, already thinking about what needs to be tied up. What’s left. Who’s left. And then… her.
"Tell Francesco I want out Tuesday." My tone is final. I’m done playing prisoner.
"Still have one more thing to handle here."
His brows rise. ‘Freeze the cameras again?’ The bastard’s grinning now.
"Yeah."
He stands, taking another drag of his cigarette, and eyes me like he’s waiting for the punchline. "Need anything else, lover boy?"
I pause, then glance down at my phone, the glow of her feed still burning on the screen. Her face. Her lips. All those goddamn comments.
Jealousy doesn’t sit well on me, it turns to violence too quickly.
"Take care of them." My voice is ice. "Block every fucker who comments on her posts. If they come back, I want them gone. Permanently."
I tap my phone once more, zooming in on her latest picture, her smile soft, unreadable.
"And get me access to her account." I look him dead in the eyes.
"I want to know who she talks to. Who she’s texting. If she’s fucking someone… I want a name."
A pause. "So, I can kill them."
Andres just shakes his head and walks out without another word. He knows I’m not bluffing.
Tuesday can’t come soon enough.