Chapter 20 – Cyril
It’s early evening, but it feels like I’ve been locked in this goddamn room for a century.
The warehouse is chaos incarnate. Controlled on the outside, but underneath, it’s fraying.
Everyone’s talking at once. Phones are screaming. Radios are cycling through three languages in the background. Aldo’s pacing like a fucking madman, juggling burner phones like they’re about to explode in his hands. One pressed to his ear, another flashing a secure message, the third dangling from his fingers like he forgot which crisis it belongs to.
He looks like Wall Street if it had a panic attack in a war bunker.
Alvise’s at the head of the table, flipping through a pile of encrypted reports, face hard and carved from fucking concrete. He hasn’t blinked in five minutes. His jaw’s clenched so tight I can hear it grinding from across the room.
Then, Gael walks in, lip split, cigar in his mouth, knuckles red like he beat someone on the way in. Which, knowing Gael, he probably fucking did.
“Customs is playing God,” he mutters as he lights up. “Like they’ve been waiting for an excuse to pull our pants down.”
I’m planted at the central console, staring at the satellite overlay of Pier 17. It’s pulsing red now, like a warning light screaming through the shadows. Another one of our docks, flagged and frozen. Another vein clamped shut.
“Three of our shell corps are under audit,” Aldo barks suddenly, flipping his phone to speaker so we can hear the encrypted message from the legal team. “IRS flagged the real estate deals from Q3. They’re crawling through the fucking drywall now. Forensics. Transaction reversals. They’ve got warrants out the ass.”
He finally looks up, eyes wide and furious. “This isn’t noise. Someone’s peeling us open from the inside.”
“Pier 17’s fucked,” Alvise growls, tossing a report onto the table. “The Romanian shipment stalled out last night. One of our guys—Lazlo—picked up by Homeland Security. No charges. Just disappeared into a black site in Jersey like he’s a goddamn ghost.”
“Motherfucker,” Gael spits, dragging the cigar from his lips and pointing it at no one in particular. “That was a clean run. No flags, no loose ends. They shouldn’t have seen it coming.”
“They didn’t,” I say, my voice harsh and cutting. “Someone showed them.”
My hand itches to smash something, anything—a glass, the monitor, a goddamn face. But I force it still. Stillness is more dangerous than rage right now.
Aldo hurls one of the burners against the concrete wall. It explodes into plastic and sparks.
“They’re boxing us in,” he snarls. “And whoever’s feeding them this intel? Knows exactly where to fucking press. They’re not just poking—they’re eviscerating us from the top down.”
My gaze cuts to the blinking lights. One for every bleeding asset. Every frozen account. Every fucking whisper we didn’t catch fast enough.
“It’s Crane,” I say, flat and deadly. “He’s using the fucking system now. Not knives. Not guns. Courts.”
“Jesus,” Alvise mutters. “He’s turning suits into snipers.”
I nod. “He wants to make us bleed slow. Make me watch everything I built rot from the inside.”
Gael slams his fist on the table. “You want me to put a bullet in him? Name it.”
“Not yet,” I growl. “This isn’t loud. This is bait. He’s trying to draw us out.”
“You think he’s expecting retaliation?” Alvise asks, pacing now, too. “You think he wants us to go nuclear?”
“No,” I say. “He wants us desperate.”
And fuck him—because it’s working.
Tonight…I need to be someone else, just for a few hours.
I push away from the table and glance at my watch.
“I’m leaving early.”
The room freezes. Gael’s halfway through lighting his cigar and just stares at me like I spoke in tongues.
“You’re what?” Aldo says, like he didn’t hear right.
I straighten my cuffs and adjust my sleeves. “You heard me.”
Gael’s eyes light up. “Boss has a date,” he mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Tell me it’s the nanny,” Alvise says, eyes wide. “Just say it. I need this. My soul needs this.”
I don’t answer. Just reach for my jacket.
Gael lets out a low whistle. “He didn’t disagree!”
That does it. The whole room explodes in laughter and teasing like a bunch of fucking high schoolers. I roll my eyes and walk out.
Let them have their fun. I don’t give a damn what they think.
Tonight isn’t about the syndicate. Tonight is about her.
By the time I pull up to the estate, the sky’s melting from iron gray into navy. The Maserati hums beneath me like a predator, sleek and dangerous, its paint black as sin. I park just in front of the steps and step out, leaning against the hood, checking my watch like I’m not three shades too early and two beats too wired.
I don’t do dates. I do deals. Rooms with two exits and conversations that mean more than what’s said out loud. But this?
This is different.
Then, the door opens.
And I forget how to fucking breathe.
Enya steps out of the house like the scene was written for her. She’s wearing this tiny black dress, tight in the hips, soft curls tumbling down around her bare shoulders, and legs that look like they were carved to ruin men. The dress clings to her curves like it’s scared to let go, and every step she takes down those stairs has that hem riding higher on her thighs. Too high. Dangerously high. That low neckline doesn’t help either, my eyes drag over the dip of her collarbone, the way the candlelight from the porch touches the swell of her chest.
Fuck.
My fists clench at my sides to keep from adjusting myself right there in the driveway like a goddamn teenager.
She smiles, slightly unsure. Her cheeks are pink, her lips painted the exact red I want to ruin.
“Hi,” she says softly.
Jesus.
“You look like trouble,” I murmur, meeting her halfway at the base of the steps.
She tilts her head. “You look like a man who doesn’t do this often.”
I open the car door for her with a smirk. “I don’t.”
And when she slides into the leather seat, legs crossing, dress inching higher, yeah, I nearly cancel the restaurant.
Nearly.
But not tonight.
Because despite what has happened between us, the nights I’ve fucked her senseless, the mornings I’ve watched her walk barefoot down the hallway like she already owns a piece of my soul, she deserves more than back rooms and half-lit moments. She deserves more than secrets and shadows and whatever fucked-up version of normal I’ve handed her so far.
She deserves a real night. A real date.
And that’s what I’m giving her.
Because she deserves everything.
So, I drive through the chaos of the city, the honking horns and the rain-slicked streets. I don’t say much because if I do, I might tell her too much too soon. That I’ve thought about this. That I’ve planned more than I should have. That I keep seeing her in flashes, curled up on my couch, laughing in my kitchen, tucked under my arm like she was always meant to be there.
And that’s dangerous.
Because in my world, the things you want? The things you love?
They’re the first to be used against you.
But I know a part of me has started to get careless.
I take her to the rooftop with the candle lights and the ghost of jazz playing in the ivy. She looks around in awe, taking in the scene. I let her sit across from me in a dress that’s way too short for my sanity and way too perfect for anyone else to look at. I pour her wine and watch the candlelight glimmer in her eyes.
And for the first time in a long fucking time, I let myself hope that maybe this doesn’t have to end in ruin.
The rooftop restaurant is buried at the top of a five-star hotel in Midtown. No signs or photos. You either know it’s there or you don’t. The elevator opens into a garden strung with fairy lights and the softest sound of jazz. There’s only one table tonight, ours. The rest of the space has been cleared. Candlelight glows along the ivy-covered walls, and soft wind moves through the arching ironwork overhead.
Enya steps into the space like she belongs there. She stops when she sees the setup, eyes widening.
“There’s no one else here,” she says.
“There’s no one else I want here.”
She gives me a look, half amused, half nervous, but she doesn’t argue. The hostess melts into the shadows, leaving us alone. One server appears like a ghost, fills our wine glasses, then disappears just as quickly.
We sit. And we eat. Sort of.
Mostly, I watch her, enjoying her meal. The way her eyes shut slowly when he takes a bite, soft moans escaping her lips.
She talks about Ren. About how he tried to convince her that dinosaurs could drive trucks because “there was no law back then.” Her laugh is warm, unguarded. What we don’t talk about is how our world is turning upside-down with every passing moment.
“You’re staring,” she says at one point, setting her wine glass down.
“You just noticed?”
She flushes, looking down at her plate. “You’re intense, you know.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You wore that dress, Enya. You can’t be surprised.”
She looks up, lips parted in mock offense. “Are you saying this was my fault?”
“I’m saying I’m suffering.”
She laughs, and when she bites her lips trying to control it, I feel like I’m going to lose control.
“Are you now?”
I lean back in my chair, swirling the wine slowly, eyes locked on hers.
“Touch yourself.”
She blinks.
At first, she thinks I’m joking. Her brows lift. Her mouth opens like she’s about to laugh it off, but then she sees my face, and I can tell she realizes I’m serious. And I am.
“Cyril,” she whispers, her voice dropping and becoming breathless.
I tilt my head and give her a wicked smile. “You heard me. Play with yourself. Make yourself come.”
It’s a command, but it’s seductive.
She swallows. She straightens an inch, like her body’s trying to process whether this is real. Her eyes dart toward the edge of the terrace, as if someone might be watching. But they’re not. No one’s here. I made sure of that.
“We’re in public,” she hisses under her breath.
“No one’s watching.” I lower my voice, and it becomes rougher around the edges. “And I didn’t ask, Enya.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine.
“It’s not a request.”
She doesn’t move. Not at first.
But I see the way her thighs press together beneath the table, how her fingers twitch on the linen napkin in her lap. The part of her that’s scandalized is at war with the part that’s utterly, devastatingly mine.
Then, she exhales. Her eyes gaze into mine as her hand slips slowly under the table.
My breath halts. Just for a second.
Her lashes flutter, and she shifts ever so slightly in her seat, legs parting under the tablecloth in a way that no one would notice.
Except me.
She bites her lower lip.
I lean forward slightly, just enough for my voice to slide over the candlelit space between us.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Nice and slow.”
She lets out a shaky breath, eyes wide, lips trembling.
“You like doing what I tell you?” I ask quietly.
She nods. Swallows.
“Yes,” she breathes.
And fuck me, I feel it all the way down to my bones. I’m so hard, I can barely keep myself together. My cock is hot, throbbing against the front of my slacks, but I’m in no fucking rush.
The tension, the risk, the sheer hunger of it all coils tight in my chest, and I know that I’m about to make her pay for every second of this teasing.
The wind ruffles Enya’s hair as she sits across from me. Above us, the sky is black velvet dusted with stars, and below, the low hum of traffic rises up from the streets of New York, distant but steady.
The restaurant is completely deserted—just the two of us, alone, with the faint scent of wine and the heady anticipation building between us.
Every ounce of my attention narrows to her—only her.
Suddenly, she stops, and before I can protest, she gets up. She climbs on top of the table as the silk of her dress pools around her waist, exposing the bare, perfect curve of her ass.
My gaze drops shamelessly to her glistening pussy, staring like a goddamn caveman.
She settles herself in front of me, spreading her legs so I can see every inch of her. She fucking loves this. She just needed someone to bring out this wild side of her.
And I have never wanted a woman more in my entire life.
“Spread your legs wider,” I order, voice low, rough with the need vibrating through my entire body.
She glares at me but obeys, moving her knees further apart until she’s completely open for me, every pink, swollen inch of her on display.
“That’s better,” I murmur, my voice a dark rumble of approval.
“Fuck you, Carfano,” she snaps.
I freeze. And so does she, surprised at her own filthy words. Electricity jolts me.
Everything inside me goes white-hot with the need to tear into her, but I hold it back, barely, clenching my fists at my sides.
I want her so fucking badly it’s a physical ache.
Not yet.
“You’re so hot when you talk filthy, but only one of us is getting fucked tonight, and it’s not me,” I say quietly, watching her swallow hard.
Relief and fury war across her face.
Slowly, her hand goes down, cupping her pussy, rough and urgent, making my breath hitch hard in my throat.
God, she’s perfect.
Raw. Furious.
Mine.
Her thumb circles her clit, slow at first, but it’s clear she’s getting worked up despite herself. Her lower stomach flutters with tiny contractions, her lips parting on a soft, breathy moan she can’t seem to hold back.
The sound is pure fucking sex, real and raw, and it floats over to me, making my cock jerk painfully.
She slips her middle finger between her folds, stroking herself shamelessly, her body betraying her rage, her eyes going heavy and dazed. With her other hand, she keeps herself steady, gripping the edge of the table, and giving me the perfect fucking view.
I can’t fucking breathe as I watch her slide a second finger in.
“Three fingers,” I rasp, the command cracking out of me like a whip.
She obeys instantly, shoving a third finger inside her tight little pussy, and her back arches beautifully.
At first, she moves slowly, drawing out the strokes, but then her rhythm turns frantic, brutal. She’s fucking herself with reckless desperation, moaning, grinding down on her own hand.
I grip the arms of the chair until my knuckles go white, fighting the brutal urge to tear her hand away and bury myself inside her.
She’s so close. I can see it, feel it. Her body starts to convulse, hips jerking helplessly.
Then, her fingers slip free, and she immediately presses against her clit, rubbing fast, messy circles.
She moans loudly, biting her lips hard to keep her voice down. Juices glisten between her thighs, dripping onto the cushions beneath her.
And then, fuck me, she brings her slick fingers to her mouth and sucks them clean, eyes fluttering shut with a soft, filthy whimper.
The sight is a punch to my gut. I’m moving without thinking, out of the chair and crossing the space between us in two long strides.
I close the distance between us in a heartbeat.
Her eyes snap open in shock, but before she can say a damn word, my hands are on her thighs, spreading them wide, and my face is between her legs.
“Cyril!” she protests, voice breaking—but she’s too late.
I latch onto her clit, sucking hard, growling into her like a starved man.
“Fuck, Cyril…I’m going to come on the table…” she cries out, nails clawing into my hair, trying to pull me away.
I don’t let her.
I dig in deeper, dragging my tongue through the sweet mess of her, lapping up everything she has to give me.
Her back arches off the table, her thighs clenching around my head, but I keep her pinned, relentless.
She tries to push me away again, breath hitching, voice breaking, “Cyril, I’ll come all over you, please….”
I don’t stop. I want her to come all over me, around me, coating me in her juices.
I slip two fingers inside her, curling them up against the spongy spot that makes her whole body seize, and work her ruthlessly, building the pressure higher and higher until she’s gasping, sobbing, shaking apart in my hands.
She screams when she comes, the sound ripping out of her like it’s been torn from her soul.
I feel the gush of her orgasm coat my hand, hot and slick, and without hesitation, I duck my head and suck her clean, savoring every last drop of her.
When I finally lift my head, I stare down at her.
A faint sheen of sweat clings to her forehead. Her bottom lip is swollen from biting it, her thighs still twitching gently.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And fuck, I want to bury myself inside her so badly it’s a physical pain.
But not here.
Not on this rooftop.
I’d fucking break the table.
The elevator doors slide closed behind us, sealing us into a box of dim lights and mirrored walls. Enya is flushed—cheeks pink, lips swollen, breathing still shallow from what just happened at the table. Her dress is wrinkled across the thighs, and that glint in her eyes is one I’ve come to know too well.
Desire. Mischief. An unspoken and dangerous energy.
She leans back against the brushed steel wall, chin tilted up. “You’re trouble, Carfano.”
I move in close, hands braced on either side of her head, caging her in without touching her.
“You started it,” I murmur.
She grins. “You escalated it.”
“Get used to it,” I say, leaning in—mouth almost on hers now, breath shared in the narrow space between us. “I’m not exactly the slow-burn type.”
She tilts her chin higher, daring me. “No shit.”
I’m about to kiss her. Not just tease. Not just lean. Kiss her. Devour her. Rip the rest of the night apart piece by piece until she forgets anything else ever existed.
And then—
My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. One buzz. Then again.
I ignore it.
It goes again.
“Seriously?” Enya says, smirking. “You’re really gonna let that ruin the moment?”
I sigh and reach for it anyway, if only to stop whoever’s suicidal enough to interrupt me right now.
The screen lights up.
Anaya.
My blood goes still.
Anaya never calls me. Ever. She’s worked at the estate for as long as I can remember and avoids me like I’m some ghost who might curse her if she speaks too loudly.
I swipe to answer, brows already furrowed. “What?”
Her voice hits me like a fucking freight train.
“Sir—it’s Ren.”
I freeze.
“He’s gone,” she whispers, breathless. “He was playing by the garden, and…he’s gone. We can’t find him.”
My heart slams into my ribs.
“What do you mean gone?” I bark.
“He was just there,” she cries. “I turned to check the gate, and when I looked back…he wasn’t there. We’ve searched the grounds. He’s gone.”
The world around me folds in.
Time stops.
Everything, every goddamn thing, fades out except the roar in my ears.
Ren is gone.
My boy.
I feel like a machine stepping out of the elevator, walking on instinct, without thinking about it.
Behind me, Enya’s eyes are wide, and her smile has vanished. “What is it?”
I don’t answer her.
Not yet.
Not until I’m sure I’m not about to scream.
“He’s missing,” I say, unable to control the tremor in my voice. “Ren. He’s gone…. Somebody took…kidnapped him, I think.”
Her hands fall away from my chest like I just set her on fire, tears pooling in her eyes. “Oh, my God….”
I’m already dialing. My men. Alvise. The estate security.
“Lock the place down,” I say into the phone, my voice flat but lethal. “No one in or out. Shut the gates, scan every camera. If you don’t find him in five minutes, I want eyes on every vehicle that passed within a mile. Drones. Dogs. I don’t give a fuck—MOVE.”
I hang up.
My pulse is a drumbeat made of fury.
He was just there.
The words echo in my skull, loud and useless.
Crane.
It has to be him. It has to be. No one else could’ve gotten that close. No one else would dare.
I feel Enya’s hand brush mine. Hesitant, afraid, trembling.
“Cyril—”
I grab her hand.
“Get in the car.”
My voice is calm, but my grip on her fingers is iron.
She doesn’t ask anything else. She just follows.
Because she knows.
The war isn’t coming anymore.
It’s here.
And it’s already taken the one thing I can’t survive losing.