Chapter 30
Lucio
I don’t know why, but the alarms blare all throughout Emiliano’s home office, the robotic voice repeating the words over and over.
“A security breach has been detected. A security breach has been detected.”
“Fuck,” Eli curses under his breath, pushing back his chair. “Call Matteo. I need to go check on the security of the penthouse.”
I slip out my phone. Matteo lets the call ring only once before he answers.
“Yes?”
“There’s been some sort of security breach,” I say. “Eli wants you to figure out what the fuck is going on and fix it. Whatever it is.”
“I know,” he tells me.
Frowning, I ask him, “How do you know? You’re at your apartment.”
“I get notified the moment there’s a security breach. Tell Eli everything looks fine on the surface level, but it could take a couple of weeks for us to track since this wasn’t just a random phishing email that caused it. Someone was actively crossing our firewalls.”
A sinking feeling tells me that I might have an idea as to who it might be, but instead of telling my brother the truth, I go for the obvious suspect.
“It’s probably the Outfit.”
“Very likely, but it’ll still take us a couple of weeks to know for sure. For now, we need to get guards stationed outside the doors ’til we’re able to solve this.”
I end the call with Matteo, slipping my phone back into my pocket, but the weight of suspicion lingers, pressing against the base of my skull.
A security breach. Not random. Not an accident.
Someone actively worked to get into our systems, past the firewalls Matteo has spent years fortifying. And I know exactly who the real culprit is.
The thought of her sneaky little hands in my world sends a slow, dark thrill through me.
I should be pissed off. I should be furious. Instead, my lips curl, amusement curling low in my gut. The little mouse just can’t help herself. Can’t help sneaking, spying, prying.
I knew I shouldn’t have tested her patience, how she’d respond to me disappearing. But I wanted to see how she’d react when she didn’t have any access to me.
Eli exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as he storms inside. His patience, already worn thin, is gone.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “First, this killer that’s fucking shit up, and now this. I swear to God, if this is the Outfit…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I know how it ends. If this is the Outfit, there will be bodies.
Good thing it’s not.
I keep my expression blank, rolling my shoulders as I lean against the desk, watching as my brother takes the seat behind it.
Matteo’s right. It’ll take weeks to track who did this. But I don’t need weeks. I already fucking know.
And the worst part? I don’t even care.
Let her play her games. Let her think she can keep one step ahead. Let her keep fucking chasing me.
Because I’m already addicted to her.
A different kind of drug. One I can’t quit. One I don’t even want to.
The liquor burns down my throat, hot and sharp, but it does nothing to dull the ache crawling beneath my skin. The club is loud. The bass vibrates through the floors, bodies pressing too close, hands reaching, mouths whispering filth into my ear.
None of it matters. None of it touches me.
I lean back against the leather booth, a girl curling herself into my side, pressing her lips to my throat. I don’t even remember her name. Probably because I don’t care. I push her off me; she tumbles to the floor, sending me a glare before she gets up to leave.
I don’t want her fucking hands on me. The only hands I want belong to someone I shouldn’t be thinking about.
I reach for my drink, but before I can take another sip, I catch Eli’s gaze from across the room. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable.
They’re all watching me. Emiliano. Matteo. Romiro.
They think I don’t notice. Think I’m too caught up in this spiral. In my reckless drinking and partying, the constant cycle of sex, violence, and sin.
They think they know what’s wrong with me. They don’t.
They don’t know that it’s not the alcohol. Not the women. Not the fights or the nights spent drowning in whiskey and bad decisions.
Not anymore. Instead, it’s her. It’s always been her. From the moment my eyes landed on her.
She thinks I don’t know. Her hands in my world, her scent still on my skin, her fucking name burned into my very existence.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. I should leave. Go home. Lock myself in my penthouse and pretend I still have some semblance of control.
But the thing is…
I don’t.
I lost control the second I let her in. The second I let her come apart on my fingers. The second she whispered yes when I told her we weren’t done.
And now? Now I can’t fucking stop.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone. I hesitate. I’ve ignored her for days. Removed the tracker she had on my phone and stayed away from my penthouse to avoid her cameras. Shaking my head, I pocket the phone and decide that I have a better idea.
She leaves her fucking window unlocked. Again.
It’s almost too easy, slipping inside like I belong here. Like she leaves her window open just for me. Maybe she does.
The air is thick with the scent of her: caramel, something sweet beneath the sharper edge of whatever expensive perfume she wears. It lingers in the space between us, in the air I breathe, on my skin.
She’s not sleeping. I knew she wouldn’t be. Instead, she’s sitting at her desk, her posture rigid, fingers flying over the keys of her laptop. The screen casts a soft glow over her face, her dark lashes low as she focuses, biting her lips in concentration.
A pretty little liar, pretending she didn’t invade my space, my family’s business, with the little stunt she pulled today. I move closer. Slow. Deliberate. I could drag this out. Could watch her a little longer but my patience is already razor-thin.
So I speak. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
She freezes. Her head snaps up, and I watch the flicker of emotions dance across her face: shock, irritation, something darker beneath it. She schools it fast, but I catch it anyway.
She spins her chair to the side, pretending she isn’t the least bit rattled.
“Lucio,” she says smoothly, her voice the picture of calm control. “Breaking and entering? That’s low, even for you. But I shouldn’t be surprised since you’ve done it once before.”
I don’t take the bait. I step closer—slow, measured, my gaze locked on hers.
“What the fuck were you doing in our system?” I demand.
She tilts her head, feigning confusion. “Excuse me?”
I let out a sharp breath, running a hand through my hair before gripping the edge of her desk and leaning down so we’re eye-level.
“Don’t play dumb, Princess.” My voice is low, edged with irritation and something darker.
“You think I don’t know? I disappear for three days, and you go insane because you can’t get a hold of me.
Breaking into our system, crossing firewalls.
And you know how good my brother is at tracking anyone who breaks through the system he set up. ”
Her lips purse together, her brows pulling together. “I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
My jaw tics. She’s fucking lying. I grab the arms of her chair, caging her in, tilting my head as I stare her down.
“I know it was you.”
“Like fuck you do!” she says, pushing me out of her way as she stands up. “I didn’t do it. Just because I stalked you doesn’t mean I’ll put myself in the direct sight of the fucking Camorra.”
“Liar!” I growl.
Her face crumples, and it feels like a knife being pushed into my chest.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. I didn’t come to fight with her, so why am I itching to argue?