Chapter 22
Lucien
"Again!"
Sweat and blood stung my eyes, turning everything crimson. I didn't dodge the hook aimed at my ribs, letting that tearing pain rampage through my body.
Not enough. Still not enough! Only this bone-shattering agony could temporarily silence the chaos in my head that was driving me insane.
"Die, you mad dog!" My opponent roared, his steel-studded glove swinging toward my temple.
I jerked my head half an inch to the side, my fingers closing like claws around his throat, slamming the two-hundred-plus-pound fighter hard against the cage!
The cage rattled violently. Bones cracked audibly. A second before my opponent's eyes rolled back and he went limp, I leaned close to his ear, my voice as hoarse as a demon from hell.
"Too weak... Next."
The referee blew his whistle in terror, raising my arm. The crowd erupted. Bills rained into the cage like snow. I shook off the referee's hand, ripped the wraps from my fists, and strode out of the cage.
For four years, whenever insomnia and rage peaked—when even Harrison's heavy sedatives failed—I locked myself in this underground fighting pit. Trading blood and bone for physical exhaustion was the only way I could buy myself two hours of unconsciousness.
"Boss." Enzo immediately handed me an ice-cold towel and blood thinner.
I took the towel, roughly wiping the blood dripping down my forehead. "Talk."
"Carlo's here. In the manor conference room. Been waiting forty minutes." Enzo paused. "And your mother's people just asked if you're coming back to the main house for dinner tonight."
At the mention of "mother," my hand stilled briefly, shoving down the violence in my eyes. "Back to the manor in ten."
Half an hour later, Long Island Manor conference room.
Carlo sat across from the head of the table, his cigar half-burned. Seeing the fresh wounds on my face and the blood on my hands, he frowned in displeasure.
"Lucien, look at yourself! What kind of spectacle is this? Casalesi and the council are waiting for your response, and you're brawling with lowlifes in some pit?"
"What do you want?" I ignored his lecture, sitting down across from him, cold as ice.
"Our families' future, naturally." Carlo pushed a document across. "Stock agreement for the Atlantic City casino. Sign this, and Casalesi remains your strongest backing."
"And if I don't sign, you're no longer my backing?"
Carlo's face tightened.
"Lucien, I didn't say that." He leaned back. "You know things have been unstable. That little fox from the Moretti family is making bigger moves. You need a powerful marriage alliance to solidify your position. Serena—"
Here we go again.
"Serena's condition has worsened recently." Carlo sighed, looking concerned. "The doctors say she needs emotional support. She's loved you since she was a child... You understand what I'm saying, Lucien?"
"You want your daughter moving into my manor, sleeping in my bed, then legitimately taking half of Genovese assets."
Carlo's face darkened.
"Lucien! I'm looking out for you! Serena's devoted to you, she—"
"Tell her to give up. I only have one wife. Elora."
"Lucien, don't be ungrateful! I saved your father's life! And don't forget, your recent shipments in the Bronx haven't been going smoothly!"
"Are you threatening me?"
When our eyes met, Carlo flinched.
"I'm reminding you—cooperation benefits us both."
I stood, walking toward him. "I give you profits, you do the work. And stop bringing up my father."
Carlo's face turned purple. He grabbed his cane, slammed it hard on the carpet, and stormed out.
"Boss," Enzo stepped forward, "Carlo's been getting cozy with the drug dealers in the Bronx. Should we—"
"Let him jump." I pressed my temple. "The higher he jumps, the harder he falls."
After leaving the manor, I found myself driving to that familiar place—Greenwich Village, West 10th Street. Serenity Essence.
The dark green vintage awning had faded some, but the storefront remained immaculate. For four years, I'd preserved everything about this shop, even the placement of oils on the shelves—exactly as Elora had left them.
I pushed the door open.
The air carried fresh eucalyptus and deep sandalwood. That familiar scent was a dull blade, instantly piercing every facade I'd built.
A woman in a black leather jacket with sharp purple hair looked up from behind the counter.
Maya Rossi. Elora's best friend in this world.
The moment she saw me, her polite professional smile vanished, replaced by undisguised disgust and ice.
"We're closed."
"It's three in the afternoon."
"I said we're closed. Don't you understand English?" She crossed her arms, walking to the counter. "Mr. Genovese, you're not welcome here."
Same as always.
These four years, I'd come here almost monthly to sit for a while. And every time, this woman snarled at me like a viper protecting her young, cold and mocking.
I ignored her dismissal, walking straight to that familiar spot by the window.
"Planning to squat here again?" Maya followed, glaring.
"Where is she?"
Maya scoffed, leaning against the table edge. "You're asking me? Why would I know? Maybe growing potatoes on Mars. Maybe sunbathing with some hottie on a tropical island. Anywhere but New York. Satisfied?"
My fingers tightened on my knee. My people had searched every one of Maya's communications, bank records—even verified her takeout receipts. Clean as a blank page. I knew she knew where Elora was. But I couldn't touch her.
I couldn't. She was precious to Elora. If I hurt Maya, Elora would never forgive me.
"Pray she's doing well." I forced the words through clenched teeth. "Otherwise, I'll make you disappear from New York."
"Anytime." Maya met my gaze fearlessly. "But before that, maybe take care of yourself. Look at you—half-dead, barely human. God, it's satisfying!"
I shot to my feet, the violent urge to snap her neck screaming through my blood. But I only ground my teeth, sinking back into the chair, closing my eyes.
Maya rolled her eyes, turning to organize shelves, ignoring me.
I sat there in silence, trying to catch any trace she'd left behind in that sea of fragrance.
"Lucien, why are you here again?"
Her phantom appeared unbidden. She wore a beige sweater, head down, carefully dropping oils into small bottles, sunlight gilding her soft brown hair. She'd look up, giving me that shy, sweet smile.
"Elora..." I reached out. My fingers touched only cold air.
My phone vibrated violently, jolting me from the hallucination. Enzo.
"Boss!" Enzo's voice burst with barely contained euphoria. "Intel from the Canadian border! They spotted a single woman skilled in perfumery in a place called White Pine!"
Violent joy erupted like lava, consuming me whole.
"Send coordinates." My voice was hoarse with extreme excitement. "Prep the chopper. I'm going myself!"
Two hours later, a desolate Canadian border snowfield.
I led twenty fully armed elite operatives in a raid on an abandoned logging camp. But when I kicked down the door, I found only a dozen drug cartel remnants with heavy weapons, grinning. Another trap—Carlo and my enemies again.
The rage of being fooled devoured what little sanity I had left.
"Leave none alive."
The logging camp became a bloody ruin. I crushed the lead enemy's ribs underfoot, my combat knife pinning his palm straight through.
Not her. Not her again!
These four years, I'd been fed countless false leads and traps. Each hope shattered was a fresh, bloody wound carved into my already rotting heart.
By the time I returned to the manor, night had fallen. I sat in the dim study, pouring glass after glass of hard whiskey down my throat.
Head splitting. Dizziness overwhelming. I grabbed the crystal tumbler and hurled it at the wall. Shattered glass cut my hand, but physical pain couldn't touch the howling emptiness inside.
That's when Rocco burst in, panting, clutching a dark brown glass bottle.
"Boss! Boss, look at this!"
"Get out."
"No! Boss, smell this!" Rocco panicked, fumbling with the stopper.
A scent—familiar enough to make my soul convulse violently—flooded the study!
It was more complex, more refined than four years ago. Beneath mountain pine and wild chamomile lay crisp white tea, a hint of sweet citrus, and... that scent unique to her body, warm as sunlight!
Her! This was her scent!!
I sprang from the couch like a coiled spring, ripping the bottle from Rocco's hands, my blood roaring backward through my veins!
"Where?" I grabbed Rocco's collar.
"Black market... leaked from a top-tier private collector's circle!" Rocco gasped, shoving a terminal investigation report at me. "We traced the source!"
Rebirth Fragrance.
South Dakota. Sturgis!
Four years of darkness, four years of despair and madness—pierced in one second by a beam of light leading to heaven!
I pressed that bottle containing her scent against my heart, immense joy and soul-tearing regret twisting together, nearly forcing tears from my eyes.
"Prep the private jet. To South Dakota!"