4. Gabriel
The next day…
The ball gown has been delivered. Midnight blue silk. The tux arrived at the same time. Understated. Perfect. The car is tuned, detailed, and mechanically flawless. It will not break down again unless I decide it should.
I know these things because I arranged them. Because I do not leave details to chance.
I can't believe she lives in that house. I've seen it. Three bedrooms. Peeling paint along the gutters. The back fence sags like it gave up years ago. It's maintained just enough, the plants watered, the yard clean, no weeds creeping through the cracks. No violations. No attention.
Still… It's the worst house on the block. Which is probably the only reason they could afford it. I wonder how suspicious it would be if she suddenly… upgraded. Won another drawing she didn't enter.
My Audra.
The idea settles in my chest like it belongs there. She deserves the world. I could give it to her. Easily.
But she's married. Happily.
That word tastes bitter. It might be easier to swallow if Pete weren't such a… Pete. A nobody.
I drag a hand down my face and exhale slowly to suppress the instinct of just shooting the damn bastard and getting it over with.
The problem is, I can't make Audra unhappy.
Or sad. And like it or not, she'd be both with Saint Pete gone.
So… I'll have to work around him, since he can barely keep them afloat.
I've seen the numbers. I've seen the way she lives. The way she settles.
Pete isn't a bad man. He's just not me. He's just not enough. She deserves more than enough. She deserves me.
My fingers drum against the glass surface of my desk, tap, tap, tap, while my mind works through logistics and ways to make my Audra happy without her knowing.
I sent the purse because I knew she wanted it. Because she looked at it like it was something she wasn't allowed to have.
She is.
I had the car fixed because she needs a vehicle that doesn't leave her stranded on the side of the road. A vehicle more than the little Altima, but fuck. I'll work on that too. Eventually. Maybe before the house, because if something happened to her— My jaw clenches, and I don't finish the thought.
The tickets to the ball…
I exhale, leaning back in my chair. She's looked… off lately. Quieter. Like she is shrinking into something smaller than she should be.
Her husband's always working. Always gone. They need a night out. That's all. That's what I told myself.
My grip tightens on the armrest. Fuck.
It should be me taking her.
Not him.
For a moment, I close my eyes and let myself have it. Just this once.
She's in that midnight blue gown, the fabric clinging to her body in all the right places, catching the light like it was made for her.
It sparkles, but it doesn't stand a chance against her eyes.
Nothing does. She looks up at me. Smiles.
A warm smile. My hand slides to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric. She fits there like she was meant to.
Mine.
The music swells, and I guide her onto the dance floor, her fingers curl into my shoulder, trusting. Following. I pull her tighter into my embrace and tilt her chin up just enough, my thumb brushes the soft flesh of her jaw, and for a second… everything stills. Her lips part. Soft. Warm. Waiting.
I know exactly how they'd taste.
Sweet, with that hint of something reckless underneath. Like she doesn't even realize what she gives away. I'd take my time. The way I've never done before, lean in?—
My eyes snap open. The fantasy shatters. Reality rushes back in, cold and sharp. She's not mine. She might never be. And still…
My fingers curl into a fist. I'll make sure she has everything she deserves.
Even if she never knows it came from me.
I tell myself it's a tactical interest. Due diligence.
Curiosity. But I know I'm lying. I had her investigated within forty-eight hours of learning her name.
Audra Hale. Vet assistant. Married six years.
No priors as an adult. Her juvenile record was sealed.
I had it unsealed. Possession. Underage drinking.
Smoking. A few reckless nights. Nothing serious.
Nothing like the things I've done that have never been written down.
She straightened out the year Pete entered her life.
Peter Hale. Bank analyst. College degree.
No gambling. No side debts. No criminal record.
No mistresses. Solid. Unshakably solid. And a loser.
He works harder than anybody else at the bank.
Unfortunately, he never stood out to his superiors.
He's just Pete. Always there. Unremarkable.
Quiet. In all fairness, he earned that promotion.
I just had to make sure of it. One phone call to the regional director. A favor called in. A subtle suggestion.
It'll keep Audra a little bit more comfortable.
He cannot make too much money. Not yet. It would raise too many flags.
Even I realize that. But there are only so many contests you can win.
I keep my eye on the ball—new car, new house first. Then Pete will make more money, and he'll get another promotion.
And another. As long as he toes the line.
As long as she seems to love him. If anything changes… all bets are off.
For now, I accept their marriage. Respect it. I'm not a reckless man. I do not take what is not strategically mine. The problem is that I cannot stop thinking about her.
There is no shortage of women in my life.
Models. Socialites. Women who understand exactly what I am and want proximity to it.
Beautiful. Intelligent. Dangerous in their own ways.
None of them fascinates me. None of them made a police station go silent.
None of them smirked at a holding cell like it was a dare.
None of them looked at me like they recognized something.
Audra did.
I just don't know why.
I've replayed that moment more times than I care to admit. The lift of her chin. The bite of her lower lip. The way her eyes burned gold at the center. She wasn't scared. She was alive.
When I saw her, it felt like finding something I didn't know I'd been missing. I don't only want her body. That would be simple. I want—it all.
I see the way she laughs when she shouldn't. The way she straightens herself out for a man like Pete. I want the girl who used to flirt with danger before she chose stability. Not gone. Just buried. I saw it tonight.
In the way she hesitated, then didn't. The way she stepped just a little too close to something she knew better than to touch. I want to see what happens if she leans into it. I hate that I want that.
Because obsession is weakness. And I do not allow weakness.
I stand at the window of The Dominion, and the city glitters below. Somewhere in that sprawl, she's sitting at a kitchen table too small for her. Carrying a purse worth ten thousand dollars and pretending it was luck.
Luck.
I don't believe in luck either.
Only in design. And she has no idea that her life has already shifted.
Fuck. I have hunted men across state lines without losing sleep.
I have ended bloodlines. I have buried enemies.
Yet here I am, obsessing about a redheaded vet assistant in a suburban house who is easily the most dangerous thing that has crossed my path in years.
Because I do not know what I will become if she ever looks at me like that again.
But I intend to find out.
My email dings. I turn from the window, back to my desk, and click the mouse to wake the sleeping monitor.
I have a new message. From one of those numbered Gmail accounts that can never be traced.
It holds an encrypted attachment. Which, under normal circumstances, I would never open, but there is also a photo of Catarina attached to the file.
My fists ball when I see her swollen, bruised face.
I close my eyes. The coroner said she was in the water for a day or two before she was found at Hoover Dam. Some of the damage was done by fish.
The world goes red. Not metaphorically. Red. There was a time—before Enzo made me understand what discipline actually means—when rage owned me. When I would black out. When the edges of my vision would narrow until all that existed was the target.
I don't remember every detail of what I did in those moments. I remember the aftermaths, though. Broken knuckles. Blood that wasn't mine. Rooms destroyed. Men begging.
Damiano once said watching me lose control was like watching a building implode from the inside. No hesitation. No pause. Just devastation. Over the years, with Enzo's help, I learned to leash it.
"You don't get to lose control," he told me once, after I nearly killed a man who had already given us what we needed. "Control is power. Rage is for amateurs."
So I trained it. I buried it. I made it useful.
Now, when it rises, I don't explode. I compress.
Like a star collapsing inward. But right now—watching Catarina's face on that screen—the leash strains.
For half a second, I'm back in that warehouse three years ago.
Knife in my hand. Blood on the concrete.
Massimo's voice, steady beside me. I inhale. Slow. Measured. Control.
I inhale again. Count it. One. Two. Three.
Exhale.
The red recedes. I open my eyes. The video is still frozen on her face. Swollen. Bruised. Unrecognizable. The fish marks were the worst part. Not because of what they did. But because they felt… careless. Like the universe treated her as disposable. She wasn't. She was mine. The rage pulses again.
Hot.
I swallow it. Because monsters who lose control die. Monsters who control themselves rule. And I rule.
With a click, I open the video. It begins without sound. It takes three seconds for my brain to register what I'm looking at. Concrete floor. Dim lighting. A chair. Bound hands. Dark hair matted with blood. My lungs stop working.
Then the sound starts. It's her voice. Raw. Torn. Screaming. "Why are you doing this to me? Why?"
Catarina. My twin. The men laugh. I know those laughs. I killed those men. I remember exactly how they died. I remember the weight of the blade in my hand. The smell of gasoline. The way Massimo stood beside me.
We ended them. All of them. Her screams echo off concrete walls. She's begging. Not for her life. For an answer. "Why?"
The men taunt her. One steps into frame.
I know his face. I carved that face open three years ago.
He's dead. I made sure of it. The video cuts.
Another clip. Her crying is quieter now.
Broken. There's something in her voice I've never heard before.
Fear, yes. But something else. Protective.
As if she's thinking about someone. The video ends abruptly.
No explanation. No demand. No threat. Just silence.
What the fuck was that?
Who would send this?
Most of all: Why now? Who filmed it? Who kept it? Who waited three years?
My hands are steady. That's the only indication of how furious I am. If they weren't steady, someone would already be dead. The door to my office opens without a knock. Kale, my head of security, steps in. He stops mid-stride when he sees my face. "Bad time?"
I close the screen. "Always, what's up?"
"Ezara's at the poker tables," he fills me in, and I groan. "He's… not in a good mood." Of course he isn't. "He's down twenty grand already and threatening to break someone's hand for counting cards."
I take a deep breath. "Keep him there. I'll handle it." After a short pause, I add, "And Kale."
"Yes, boss?"
"Find out who sent me that last email. If you can avoid it, don't open the attachment."
Kale is professional enough not to show any emotions. "Yes, boss."
"And this stays between us."
He nods, and I make my way down to the floor to deal with my… what exactly is Ezara? Brother-in-law? Former brother-in-law? Former almost-brother-in-law?
Doesn't matter. He's about worn out all the goodwill I ever held for him.