Chapter 25
Lucien
"Damn it! You're worse than a highway robber!"
The crude biker named Pierre cursed under his breath, but still slapped a wad of crumpled bills on the counter, snatched up the essential oil, and stormed out into the blizzard.
I stared through the glass at that woman—hands planted on the counter, eyes sharp as knives—who'd just forced a tattooed, hot-tempered brute twice her size to back down and pay up.
Was this really her?
Four years ago, the Elora in my memory had been soft, timid.
A few cold words from me could make her eyes well up with tears, make her curl into herself like a wounded animal.
But now, in this lawless biker town, she'd given birth to my son alone and could still slam her hand on a table to haggle with a thug.
She pocketed the cash, turned to say something to her assistant, and her face lit up with a bright, unguarded smile.
That smile hit me like a lightning bolt, searing through every nerve ending, burning all the way up my spine to the top of my skull.
For four years, through countless sleepless nights tormented by regret—nights when I'd wanted to eat a bullet—I'd desperately clung to memories of her gentleness, her compliance.
But now, seeing that wild, free light in her eyes—like grass growing fierce and untamed—I realized: this was what had driven me mad all along.
I'd shoved her into the Genovese cage myself. Clipped her wings. And now she'd broken free, grown thorns and wings sharp enough to cut.
I was hopelessly in love with this version of her. I wanted her—wanted this complete, vivid Elora—even more desperately than I had four years ago.
"Boss," Rocco swallowed beside me. "The way you're looking at her... like you're about to smash through that window and drag her out."
"Shut up." I ground my teeth.
Drag her? Right now I was afraid to even raise my voice, terrified she'd look at me again with that expression—like I was garbage.
I shoved the car door open, stepped into the bitter wind, and pushed through the glass door of Rebirth Fragrance.
The brass bell chimed. Elora was reorganizing a display shelf with her back to the door. Without turning, she said, "Sorry, we're closing in ten—"
She turned around. The words died in her throat.
The moment she recognized me, that bright, vivid smile vanished like someone had flipped a switch. In its place rose an impenetrable wall of ice.
"Get out. You're not welcome here." She turned back to wiping down the counter.
"Close early. Full pay for today." I didn't even glance at the terrified assistant, just pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and set it on the counter, my eyes locked on Elora.
"You think this is New York?" Elora laughed bitterly, grabbed the bill and threw it at my chest. "Lucien Genovese, save your master-of-the-universe routine!"
The assistant went pale, grabbed her coat and practically ran out the door—thoughtfully flipping the "Open" sign to "Closed" and locking up behind her.
"I'm not here to give orders, Elora." I steadied my breathing and took a step forward. "I just want to talk."
"We have nothing to talk about." She backed away warily, putting distance between us. "I've made myself perfectly clear. If you don't understand English, I can repeat it in Italian."
Sharp-tongued. And I was helplessly in love with it.
"Elora, my cheekbone's fractured, probably cracked a couple ribs too." I gestured at the injury on my face. "Can't you give a freezing, beaten-up man—even if you pretend I'm a stranger—just one chance to sit down and talk?"
Elora stared at me expressionlessly, her lips curving into a cutting smile. "What a shame. You should call an ambulance instead of coming here to play the victim. Besides, you're too mean to die. Hell won't take you yet."
The words stabbed straight through my chest.
"Just once." I moved closer, slamming both hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her between me and the wood.
I caught her scent—bourbon vetiver mixed with her skin—and my control nearly shattered. But I forced myself not to touch her.
"Just once, Elora." My voice came out hoarse, carrying a humility that felt foreign even to me. "Twenty minutes. One meal. If you say no, I'll stand outside this shop every single day until you listen. You know I'll do it."
Elora looked like I'd struck a nerve. She stared at me, fists clenched tight. After a long moment, she laughed—a cold, brittle sound.
"Fine. Friday night, eight o'clock. The Mustang."
"Deal."
I dropped my arms and turned without hesitation, pushing through the door. This would be a fight, but if she showed up, I'd tear my heart out and lay it on the table if that's what it took.
Friday. Temperature dropped to seven degrees.
Seven p.m. I'd changed into a charcoal suit and sat alone in the most secluded corner booth at the Mustang Steakhouse.
The place reeked of cheap beer and charred meat. But I'd arrived an hour early, palms slightly clammy, loosening and straightening my tie four or five times.
I watched the second hand circle my watch, feeling an unfamiliar panic rising in my chest.
What did she like to eat? Could she stomach the tough steaks here? Should I have Rocco fly in a French chef from New York? No—she'd hate me throwing money around now.
Eight o'clock sharp.
The chair across from me remained empty. I lifted my glass, took a sip of ice-cold lemon water, forcing down the unease in my gut.
It's fine. Women need time to get ready. I could wait. I'd already waited four years.
Eight-thirty. Nine...
The restaurant had filled completely. Country music blared in my ears. My expression darkened degree by degree. Tables around me turned over once, twice—but that wooden chair stayed cold and empty.
Humiliation and panic coiled around my throat like poison vines.
She'd stood me up.
The woman who used to wait for me by the window even when I was ten minutes late—she hadn't even called. Just left me hanging in the freezing night.
My phone buzzed violently. I answered through clenched teeth. "Talk."
"Boss..." Rocco's voice trembled. "Our guys on patrol report... ma'am... she's at the French place called Golden Deer on Main Street."
"Alone?" I crushed the phone in my grip, knuckles cracking.
"No... not alone." Rocco's voice got quieter. "She's with... Julian Moretti. They reserved a window table. Having dinner."
The glass in my hand exploded. Shards drove into my palm, ice water splashing across the table. Through the horrified screams around me, I threw down some bills and stormed out.
Cold air stabbed into my lungs, but couldn't extinguish the destructive fire exploding in my chest.
She hadn't forgotten. This was deliberate. She was telling me in the cruelest, most humiliating way possible: Lucien Genovese, you mean nothing to me.
Ten minutes later, I slammed to a stop outside the Golden Deer.
Through the wide glass window, I saw a scene that made me want to gouge out my own eyes.
Under warm candlelight, Elora held a wine glass, her face soft with a gentle, flirtatious smile.
Julian sat across from her, cutting the steak on her plate, saying something that made him reach over and flick her forehead affectionately.
Elora just tapped his hand with her fork, a becoming flush on her cheeks.
My heart felt torn apart, shredded.
That trusting smile used to belong only to me. Now she gave all her softness to another man.
Jealousy consumed my reason. My hand found the gun at my back. I wanted to storm in, put a bullet in Julian, throw her over my shoulder and lock her away.
But the moment my fingers touched cold metal, I froze.
Wasn't this exactly how I'd driven her away—with violence and suspicion? If I shattered that glass tonight, I'd lose her forever.
I released the gun, shoved my hands in my pockets, jaw locked tight, and stood in the blizzard like a ghost, watching them drink, watching them laugh.
Ten-thirty. The restaurant door finally opened. Warmth and laughter spilled out.
"Julian, go get the car. Leo's waiting at home." Elora pulled her scarf tighter, voice soft and clear.
"Stay here where it's warm. Don't wander off." Julian adjusted her collar before heading toward the parking lot across the street.
The moment Julian left, I stepped from the shadows, closing in on her.
When she recognized me, her whole body went rigid as a drawn bowstring.
"What are you doing here?"
"I waited three and a half hours for you at the Mustang." I stopped two steps away. "You promised me twenty minutes."
Elora's eyes flickered, then went cold again. "I did promise. But I changed my mind. What's wrong, Mr. Genovese—never been stood up before?"
She lifted her chin, staring me down without fear. "Compared to when you locked me up without even listening to my explanation, making you sit in a warm restaurant for a few hours is getting off easy."
So it was deliberate revenge.
"Elora!" I lunged forward, gripping her wrist. "You can hit me, curse me—but you can't torture me like this! I was a bastard, I wronged you... but you can't refuse to even hear me out. Just because Julian's been with you four years, you're going to erase everything we had?"
A deafening roar of heavy motorcycles exploded through the air. Two bikes painted with skull designs skidded on the ice, hurtling straight toward the corner where Elora and I stood.
"Elora! Watch out!"
Julian's anguished roar came from across the street. He didn't even close the car door, just launched himself toward us.
My brain didn't think. My body moved faster than my thoughts. I grabbed Elora's waist, yanked her toward the safer inner corner, and shielded her with my entire back and arm.
At the same moment, Julian threw himself from the other side, arms spread wide, covering Elora's head and face with his upper body.
The motorcycle's exhaust pipe and flying shrapnel slammed into Julian and me with brutal force.
Searing pain shot through my forearm. Sharp metal sliced through skin and muscle, blood pouring out—hidden by my dark suit jacket. The bikes roared away, leaving destruction behind.
The three of us crashed into the snow. I kept my arm beneath Elora, cushioning her from the frozen ground.
"Elora! Are you okay?"
Julian struggled to his knees. A motorcycle part had split his forehead open—blood gushing down half his face in a horrifying crimson mask.
I gasped through the agony radiating from my forearm, reaching to help the woman in my arms. Elora's eyes flew open. She saw Julian's blood-soaked face.
The next second, pure panic flooded her eyes. Without hesitation, she shoved me away and threw herself at Julian.
"Julian! God, you're bleeding so much... are you okay?" Her voice shook violently, trembling hands touching his face, eyes filled with desperate fear. "Don't scare me—answer me!"
Julian patted her back. "I'm fine. Thank God you're not hurt."
I lay rigid in the frozen snow.
The blizzard cut into my face, but it was nothing compared to the tearing agony in my chest. Elora finally glanced at me—but there was no concern in her eyes, only panic for Julian's wounds. She helped him up, carefully guiding him to the car.
The taillights faded into the blizzard.
They were gone.
She never once looked at the blood seeping from my forearm. Never asked if I was in pain.
The snow fell harder.
My forearm screamed with pain, but I looked down and laughed—laughed until my eyes burned and tears spilled over.
So this was how it felt.
Four years ago, when she'd fallen on broken glass, blood dripping from her palm, looking up at me in despair as I turned away... her heart must have felt like this. Shredded.
Watching the person you love most protect someone else while you're left bleeding and alone in the cold... now I understood that agony.
I gripped my chest with one hand, letting out a choked, desperate sound in the brutal wind.
I'd destroyed my own light. Every ounce of pain I felt now was exactly what I deserved.
I steadied myself against a frozen utility pole, struggling upright in the snow, staring at the black sky.
You can punish me, Elora. I can grovel. I can bleed. I can throw away every shred of pride.
But Lucien Genovese will never let go. Not in this lifetime.