Chapter 46
I can’t breathe.
The air thins around me as the truth settles in like a fucking vice around my chest. My hands curl into fists. My breath comes ragged.
Lorenzo has Sienna.
Jaxon stands slowly, eyes still fixed on the glowing monitor. His mouth is moving, but I don’t hear a word. My pulse is too loud—thundering in my ears, drowning everything else out.
I need to know when the fuck she left. How long he's had her.
That she’s still alive.
I snatch my phone off the bench–I don’t even remember dropping it–and call Eve. She picks up immediately.
"Lucian—this one thing was bothering me," she starts. "Her contract... Dominic. He’s listed as a new client, but he said he met her at the luncheon. I thought that was only for sponsors?—"
“Eve,” I cut her off, my voice gravel and fire.
She goes quiet. I hear her footsteps stop, the bustle of the street around her fading out.
“That’s not a client,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’s not a fucking client.”
Killian straightens, his full attention locking on me.
“It’s Lorenzo,” I grind out. “He has her, Eve. He has Sienna. How long?”
A beat of silence. I can hear her breath catch. I can see her in my head, frozen in place on some city sidewalk, realization flooding her face.
“How long has she been gone, Eve?” My roar shakes the rafters as I slam my fist into the table hard enough that the windows rattle.
“Two... two days.” Her voice breaks into a whisper. She’s crying now. “Lucian, I didn’t know. I swear to God?—”
“Lucian,” Jaxon cuts in, voice tight. “I found the bug.”
I end the phone call and whip around. He turns the laptop toward me, and it’s the same fucking profile I just found.
The smug fucking picture of my old childhood friend smiling at me in an open challenge.
Behind him is a wall of whiskey bottles.
Our whiskey bottles. The ones I’ve been leaving after every battle in this cold war we’ve been fighting. I’m going to fucking kill him.
“He submitted a client application,” Jaxon says quickly. “It wasn’t a profile—it was a fucking virus. When your staff opened it, the breach was complete. He had access to the system.”
My vision goes red at the edges.
“But there’s one more thing,” Jaxon adds, hesitating and I know it’s fucking bad. “There’s a file in her contract folder. A video.”
The blood drains from my head. My legs nearly buckle, but I catch myself on the edge of the table. I nod once.
“It was uploaded last night.”
“Open it.”
The screen flickers, then the footage loads.
I nearly drop to my knees.
Sienna.
She’s slumped in a chair—metal, rusted, cold. Her wrists are bound to the arms, her ankles strapped to the legs. Her head hangs limp to the side, auburn hair dull and tangled, a curtain of dirt hiding her face.
She looks... lifeless.
“Please,” I whisper to no one. “Please be alive.”
A shadow passes across the frame, and a bucket of water is thrown over her. She jerks awake with a cry, sputtering, blinking against the light. My lungs finally expand.
Until Lorenzo fucking DeLuca steps into view.
He grips the top of her head and yanks it back. Her face tilts up—split lip, swollen eye, a knot the size of a fist on her forehead.
My heart beats so hard I swear it’s going to tear through my ribcage.
He looks straight into the camera. Into me.
“You took my son,” Lorenzo says, voice smooth, venomous. “So, I took your girl.”
I blink. What?
“I don’t have his fucking son.”
I might be a monster, but I wouldn’t go after a kid. That’s a line I’ve never crossed.
Lorenzo pulls a switchblade from his pocket. Clicks it open. Presses it to Sienna’s throat.
She whimpers, swallows—but stays still. Brave little rabbit.
A thin line of red appears on her skin where the blade kisses too hard. My world narrows to that drop of blood.
“I want him back,” Lorenzo growls. “You have twenty-four hours. Or I start sending you pieces of your whore-for-hire in bloody boxes.”
The screen goes black.
But I’m already moving.
Killian and Jaxon are right behind me as I storm out of the office, adrenaline crackling beneath my skin like wildfire.
I turn to Jax first. “Wipe everything. I want full diagnostics. Clean every fucking server, every terminal, every file he could’ve touched. If he downloaded anything, I want to know how much and how fast—and I want it ten minutes ago.”
Jaxon nods, already flipping through security clearances on his tablet.
Now Killian. “Call Wolfe. I need his helicopter.”
Killian’s eyebrows lift. “You planning on asking nice?”
“He owes me.” I growl.
We’re out of the gym in seconds, the cool blast of outside air doing nothing to temper the fury roaring through me. We pile into my Aston Martin, tires screeching as we peel into traffic, Killian’s phone already to his ear.
“Who else are we calling?” he asks as Wolfe picks up on the first ring.
“Everyone.”
This isn’t a rescue mission.
It’s a goddamn war.
* * *
I n thirty minutes, I’ve mobilized a fucking army and I’m on the helipad at the top of Wolfe Industries arguing with my head of security about who is going to fly.
The chopper is sleek—top of the line, customized, and grotesquely expensive. Wolfe’s personal toy. He’s not here to fly it himself, of course, but I’m not planning on waiting for a goddamn pilot to arrive.
“I can fly it,” I mutter, inspecting the instrument panel with sharp, practiced eyes.
Killian gives me a look like I’m full of shit. “You can fly a plane , Lucian. Helicopters are a whole different beast.”
I slide into the pilot’s seat anyway but he pushes me over.
Killian climbs in after me with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll fly. But you’re explaining the bloodstains to Wolfe.”
I smirk, just barely. “He’ll be lucky if there’s a helicopter left to give back.”
The cabin is silent except for the roar of blades overhead and the occasional flick of Killian adjusting flight controls. I don’t speak. I can’t. Every second we’re in the air is another second she’s in Lorenzo’s hands.
Every breath I take is a fight not to punch through the glass and start jumping early.
My knee bounces uncontrollably. My fingers twitch over the handle of my Glock, my mind painting a hundred ways this ends.
Every one of them involves me walking out of there with Sienna in my arms and that bastard’s head in a fucking bag.
As soon as I watched that video, I knew exactly where he was keeping her.
It’s a warehouse from our past. Not one he owns anymore so ironically it survived my destruction of his other properties.
It’s where Lorenzo and I made our first kills. Seventeen years old. Still boys with blood on our hands and his father watching with cold pride in his eyes. That was our initiation into the DeLuca crime family. That’s where we proved we were monsters.
And now Lorenzo’s brought it full circle.
That sentimental fuck chose that place for a reason.
He wants me to see it. Feel it. Bleed in it.
Well, good.
Because I want him to hear me coming.
And he fucking does.
The helicopter touches down with a bone-rattling thrum, the gravel lot kicking up in swirling clouds as Killian keeps it steady. I’m already out, my boots hitting the ground hard a second before Killian pulls away.
The wind slaps me, the late-morning sky dim with smoke-stained clouds, and the warehouse looms ahead like the grave it’s always been.
Lorenzo is waiting.
He’s standing dead center at the far end of the lot, hands in his coat pockets, like we’re here to negotiate a fucking real estate deal instead of trade blood and bones. A long series of scratches down his face that look fresh.
I walk toward him slow, steady. Every step an exercise in restraint.
We stop with a stretch of open ground between us—neutral territory that won’t stay neutral for long.
He studies me, his expression unreadable. “Where is he?”
I don’t answer.
“Don’t fuck with me, Lucian.”
I nod once at him. “My girl do that?” My eyes linger on the harsh scratches that had to have come from Sienna. My little warrior angel fought back.
He glares at me and I smile smugly.
“Knew you wouldn’t be able to handle her.”
His face nearly turns purple. “I know you have him!” Spit flies from his mouth as he screams.
“I don’t,” I say flatly, voice like broken glass. “You’re fucking paranoid.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“No,” I snap. “I think you’re a desperate, arrogant piece of shit who’s grasping at shadows because your empire is crumbling, and you need someone to blame.”
His mouth curls into a bitter sneer. “You stole my brother’s life and now you need my fucking son?”
“You know damn good and well this is not about your fucking brother anymore.”
“You’re so full of righteous bullshit,” Lorenzo spits. “But it’s always been like that, hasn’t it? You pretending to be more superior than the rest of us while hiding your sins under tailored suits and expensive clubs.”
“I’m not pretending anything. I just clean up better than you.”
“Give me my son,” he growls, stepping forward.
I don’t flinch. “Let me see Sienna.”
His eyes narrow.
“I’m not playing games, Lorenzo,” I bite out. “You show me she’s alive or I start carving your fucking eyes out, so you’ll really never see your son again.”
Too far? Not even fucking close.
“She’s fine.”
“Prove it.”
“I’m not here to prove anything.”
“Then I’m not here to negotiate.”
We stand there—two kings with proverbial knives pressed to each other’s throats. The air between us is sharp with rage, the kind that’s been simmering for years.
Decades.
This has been coming since the moment I walked away from the family. That meant walking away from Lorenzo too.
And now here we are.
At the bottom of the mountain, deciding who’s going to die on it.
The gravel stirs behind me as I hear engines. A lot more than one.
The high whine of performance tires followed by the roar of multiple vehicles charging in fast.
I whirl around, hand on my gun. “Call your fucking men off Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo is already turning. “This isn’t yours?”
We lock eyes.
Shit.
The convoy speeds into the lot like a storm—three matte-black SUVs, one bulletproof van, and a pair of souped-up bikes. They don’t stop gently. They grind into the gravel, dust and exhaust choking the air as doors slam and feet hit the ground.
Men pour out—a dozen of them. Armed. Smug fucking pricks like they’re walking into a party.
And at the front, stepping out with a fucking swagger , is Shawn O’Mally.
“I’ll be damned,” I mutter.
Lorenzo’s face drains of color.
Because he knows exactly what this means.
His brother’s debt is catching up to him. The Irish have arrived—and they didn’t come to negotiate. They came to collect what’s owed to them.
Lorenzo’s little brother was in bad. Too much debt and he couldn’t settle it.
That’s why he bailed with my Companion. Took her hostage and ended up with my bullet between his eyes.
Seems like his debt transferred to Lorenzo. Maybe instead of fighting me, he should have been cleaning up his brothers’ mess.
Shawn adjusts the collar of his leather jacket, takes a long, dramatic breath like the afternoon air is made just for him, and smiles wide.
“Ahh,” he drawls. “Isn’t this a family reunion to remember?”
Behind him, a car door opens and I go on high alert.
One of Shawn’s men is dragging a terrified, struggling boy out by the roots of his hair.
You’d be able to spot Lorenzo’s son from a mile away. He looks just like his father.
He’s kicking, screaming, crying out in broken Italian.
Lorenzo moves like he’s going to bolt.
I raise a hand. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t listen.
“Give me my fucking son!” Lorenzo shouts, voice cracking.
Shawn laughs, stepping forward, calm as the devil at Sunday mass. “Funny how you answer me now, eh, Lorenzo? Where was this–enthusiasm when your brother fucked me out of three hundred grand and six kilos of product?”
“ His problem is not my problem!” Lorenzo yells, fists shaking.
“Oh, it is now,” Shawn smirks, reaching back to ruffle the boy’s hair mockingly. “But I’m a man of opportunity. Seeing this friendly gathering–I want more than just my money back.”
He gestures to me now, eyes bright. “I want leverage.”
Satan himself would be jealous of the grin on his face.
“Now,” Shawn says, stepping into the space between us like a maestro about to conduct his bloody orchestra, “who’s ready to make a fucking deal?”
I sure as hell didn’t come here to negotiate.
I came for her.
But as much as I want to put a bullet through every bastard here—including the two standing front and center like they’re hosting a reunion—I can’t ignore the terrified little boy being dragged by his hair into the center of this chaos.
I was no older than he was when I watched a man put a bullet between my father’s eyes. No kid should have to see that.
His wide, tear-streaked face locks on mine for a single beat, and something primal rises in my chest. He’s innocent in all this. And now he’s part of it—used like a pawn in a game he doesn't understand.
I give Killian a single nod from where he’s perched on the rooftop. It’s all he needs.
The sniper rifle cracks through the air with surgical precision, and a split-second later, Shawn O’Mally stumbles, blood blooming from his shoulder. Chaos erupts as the tension detonates—men drawing weapons, shouting, diving for cover.
But I’m already moving.
My gun is up and steady, sights locked. A clean shot drops the man holding the kid—center of his fucking head. He drops like a sack of bricks, and I’m sprinting forward before his body even hits the gravel.
The boy flinches as I scoop him up under my arm and bolt for the warehouse.
Gunfire rips through the air like thunder cracking open the sky. Chaos erupts around me—shouts, bullets, the acrid scent of smoke curling into my lungs.
But I don’t stop. I don’t hesitate. I move through the fray like a man possessed, the boy tucked under my arm, his terrified weight reminding me why I can't fucking fail.
The warehouse looms ahead, the same one from the video. If she's not inside... no. I won't finish that thought. She’s here. She has to be.
My boots skid on the dirt-slick floor as I shove open the rusted door, gun drawn and sweeping the room. And there—Jesus—there she is.
Sienna.
She’s bound to the chair, gagged, her eyes wide and wild with panic, skin bruised, blood dried beneath her temple. Her entire body stiffens when she looks just past me, and for a breath, neither of us moves.
I realize just in time what’s about to happen and I can’t fucking let it.
I spin putting the boy behind me and blocking Sienna with my body. My arm raises as just a shot cracks through the air.
A bolt of searing pain explodes through my shoulder, the force jolting me and sending the boy tumbling from my grip.
But my bullet races through the air and hits the gunman between the eyes. He hits the ground just after the boy does who scrambles upright like a frightened animal. He bolts toward the exit before I can grab him.
Right into the fucking gunfight.
“Fuck!”
Gun still in hand, I put pressure on the wound. Warm blood coats my palm, but I don’t stop moving. I rush toward her, adrenaline overriding everything else. I crouch beside her, untucking the switchblade from my boot and slice it through the rope binding one hand. I slip it into her now-freed hand as I push the gag from her mouth.
My lips are on hers in a chaste kiss, needing to feel her to know she’s really here.
“Cut yourself loose, Angel. I have to get him.”
She nods, lips trembling, and starts sawing through the rope as I turn and push back into the chaos.
Outside, the firefight is peaking. My men have closed in—silent, lethal, efficient. The O’Malleys are going down one by one, caught in the crossfire they didn’t prepare for.
Killian’s on the roof, sniping with surgical precision.
The boy’s darting through the crossfire, a blur of panicked motion too small to stay safe.
His father is screaming at him across the yard to stop and hide but I don’t think he can hear it.
I duck low and sprint, weaving between crates and scattered bodies until I spot him—cornered, trembling, and inches from one of O’Malley’s men readying to grab him.
That fucking asshole. I hate a goddamn coward.
I surge forward, my shoulder screaming in protest, and tackle the bastard to the ground.
“Get back inside the fucking warehouse boy.”
Thank fuck he listens—and I let this asshole go, planting my knee on the man's chest and driving my fist into his jaw. Two bullets later and he stops moving.
It’s nearly over now. The dust is settling. Gunfire dies down, replaced by groans and silence. The air hangs thick with smoke and vengeance.
I rise slowly, my shoulder throbbing but my grip steady as I step through the haze.
O’Malley has a gun pointed at Lorenzo’s head. My old friend, now enemy, has nothing but an empty gun. He raises his hands in surrender but I’m fucking over this.
I want to get my girl out of here. But first, Lorenzo owes me my pound of flesh.
Blood coats the gravel around us. All their men are gone. My gun lifts on instinct, aimed straight at O’Malleys head and he meets the same end as the rest of his men.
Lorenzo gets my gun next, knowing we’re not fucking done yet.
Behind me, I hear Sienna’s ragged breaths as she shields the boy with her arms, pulling him back against the warehouse wall. Her eyes are locked on me, and I can feel her fear—and her fury—radiating like heat.
“Don’t let him see.” I tell her, my voice deadly low.
Lorenzo stares at me, chest heaving, the glint of something manic in his eyes.
“You wanted a war,” I say, my voice low, dangerous. “This is how it ends.”