Chapter 4
Four
L eone
The steering wheel feels icy in my hands as I navigate the rain-slick streets, but it’s not the chill that has me on edge—it’s the image of Fallon seared into my mind. The way she crumpled when I... I can’t even think about it without a knot tightening in my gut.
“Damn it,” I mutter, slamming my palm against the horn as some idiot cuts me off, oblivious to the storm brewing inside my car and head. Fallon’s wide, green eyes, usually full of fire, are now extinguished with fear—because she dared enter his room, the tomb of memories I locked away the day I received my son’s urn.
My phone feels heavy as I pull it from my pocket, the sleek device a direct line to clean up the mess at home—a mess I created. My thumb hovers over the screen for a second before pressing down with decisive force.
“Stevens, it’s Leone. Organize a medical kit to be dropped off at the house. Make sure it’s fully stocked,” I bark into the phone, the engine’s roar swallowing my words as I push the car harder.
“Any particular reason?” Stevens’ s voice crackles through the speaker, probing for details he doesn’t need to know. I know he worries I’ll still punish him for Marcus’s actions. But if I’d had an inkling Stevens was involved, he’d be as dead as Marcus.
“None of your fucking business,” I snap, patience fraying. “Just do it.”
My thoughts drift back to Fallon, her body battered and bruised because of my fury. She was wrong to run from me, to go into his room… but the ache gnawing at me suggests maybe I went too far. It’s a weakness I can’t afford—this unsettling concern for her well-being when she betrayed me.
“Anything else?” Stevens’s voice pulls me back, and I realize I’ve been gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles are white.
“Make it quick. Drop it off with Rocco or Milo at the house,” I reply curtly, ending the call. Silence follows, filled only with the sound of the storm outside and the relentless hammering of my heart.
The casino’s neon lights finally come into view, casting eerie shadows across the wet pavement. I shove the phone back into my pocket. My father will be furious I’m late, and with him, there will be another kind of storm—one I’ll weather as always: unyielding, unforgiving, and ready for war.
I stride into the casino, fury boiling in my veins. I hadn’t even made it halfway here when the notification dinged telling me someone was in the basement. I didn’t think Milo would be so foolish, and I was shocked to find Rocco and Maria helping him. Fallon’s hold over Milo and everyone else... All I want to do is turn around and head back before there’s more trouble.
“Leone,” my father grunts as I storm into my office. The smell of aged whiskey stings my nostrils. He’s made himself comfortable, the bottle half-drained.
“You’re late,” he scolds, his eyes too clouded with alcohol to see the rage simmering in mine.
“Something came up at the house,” I say through gritted teeth, waving his irritation away.
“Fallon?” The name falls from his lips like an accusation. “Have you pulled her back in line?”
“I’m working on it,” is all I offer, clenching my jaw to keep from spilling the darker details. “I need to get back home, so let’s get this over with,” I say, dropping into my seat.
“Your brother,” he shifts topics, unaware of how close I am to the edge, “managed to piss off the Mexicans. He attacked their right-hand man last night—the brother-in-law of Santos.” He shakes his head, looking tired.
“Well, maybe if he learned to keep his mouth shut, he’d get into less trouble.”
“Trouble indeed. I had to pay Santos not to kill him. Dante was beaten up and is now licking his wounds.”
“Shame. A bullet would’ve been cheaper and one less problem for me,” I mutter. Dante always had a knack for screwing up and walking away with barely a scratch.
“Speaking of drama, Dante is no longer marrying into the cartel, and he’s furious,” my father continues, oblivious to my disdain for Dante’s antics. “I may have mentioned to Santos you’ve taken a wife. Trying for an heir.”
My glare could shatter glass. “And why would you tell them that?”
“Insurance, Leone. Stability. Dante clearly has no foot in the door,” he waves dismissively, as if talking about the weather, not meddling in my life. “Just make sure Fallon gets pregnant. Santos seemed quite eager. Word’s spreading and Dante let it slip.”
I nod, saying nothing because there’s nothing to say. Orders are orders, even when they come wrapped in familial interference. “What do you mean Dante let it slip?”
“Your mother,” he starts again, and I can feel the headache building behind my eyes, “wasn’t pleased to hear about your marriage second-hand. You know how she is about tradition.”
“Great,” I sigh, imagining the lecture I’ll get from the matriarch who cared more for appearances than her own children.
“Make it happen, Leone. She wants the grand spectacle. A proper wedding.” My father’s command slices through the haze of cigar smoke. A proper wedding, as if putting on a show could erase the sins of our family. “Get her off my back, and make sure Fallon behaves at dinner next week.”
I stiffen, my hand pausing mid-motion. “Dinner?”
He nods, leaning back with an air of nonchalance only those born into power can truly possess. “Your mother has invited her over. She’s quite excited about the idea of grandchildren.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “She never gave a damn about us, and now she’s excited about grandkids?” The hypocrisy tastes sour.
“Watch your mouth, Leone,” he warns, eyes narrowing slightly—a subtle reminder he’s still the boss. “She may have been an alcoholic, but she’s been sober for three months.”
“Right,” I scoff, unable to help myself.
“Give her a chance, son,” he insists, a wistful note creeping into his voice—a rare glimpse of softer emotions usually buried beneath ruthlessness. “She’s trying. Hasn’t touched a drink in months.”
“And you believe her?” I ask.
“I do. She’s breath-tested daily.”
I search his face for any sign of delusion, finding none.
“Fine,” I relent, rolling my shoulders to release some tension. “But if this is a game?—”
“It’s not.” His assurance is firm, leaving no room for further discussion. We end the meeting, and I head home.
The drive blurs by, my mind preoccupied with the tasks ahead. I need to ensure everything falls into place—Milo, the wedding, Fallon. Especially Fallon. Control must be maintained, boundaries enforced. When I arrive home, the house is silent, save for the undercurrent of fear.
I make my way to the basement. A shiver runs through me—half anticipation, half dread. I turn the handle and push the door open. Fallon is huddled in the corner, defiant and frail. I warned her. She chose to ignore me, and now she faces the consequences.
“Get up,” I command, my tone leaving no room for argument.
She looks up, her deep green eyes searching for a hint of mercy. “Is Milo okay?” she asks, voice barely a whisper.
“Get up,” I repeat, firmer. There’s a moment of hesitation before she reluctantly complies, using the wall for support. Her limbs tremble, betraying her pain. I grab her arm and pull her to her feet. Her winces cut through me, but she must learn.
“Please, Leone…” Her plea hangs in the air as we ascend the stairs. This is for her own good, whether she sees it or not. I drag her upstairs, wondering where Milo and Rocco are. Milo is likely watching, but he stays hidden.
I take Fallon to the bathroom, shoving the door open. “Shower,” I order. Her hands shake as she turns on the water. I don’t look at her at first, knowing what I’ll see, but when she winces, refusing to get under the stream, I take over, pushing her in. Rolling up my sleeves, I grab the soap and begin cleaning her, avoiding the bruises blooming like dark flowers on her skin.
When I crouch to wash her legs, I see the raw, chafed flesh on her thighs, parts rubbed raw. I swallow thickly as she flinches when I bring the soap to her backside. She tries to pull away, but I drag her closer. Her hand grips my shoulder, trembling.
“Stay still; I’ll be quick,” I tell her, running the soap over her skin.
Once done, I drag her out, offering a towel—a small mercy. I lead her back, not to the room she fears but to another, sparser one with a bed and toilet. She pleads not to go, grabbing the stair railing. I toss her over my shoulder as she kicks and thrashes. I’m half-tempted to smack her, but I hold back.
“Here,” I say, setting her down inside. “You stay until my terms are met.”
“Leone…” Her voice breaks, carrying despair that should shake me—it doesn’t. Not anymore. Fallon clutches the thin blanket on the steel bed, wrapping it tight around her shivering form.
“Can I have some clothes?” she whispers. “It’s freezing.”
I say nothing. I open the bag Maria must have placed here and retrieve the salve Rocco got while we wait for Stevens to drop off a first aid kit. She winces as I apply it to her chafed legs, carefully bandaging the bleeding parts.
My shirt comes off next, the fabric heavy with the scent of cologne and me, and I toss it at her without a word. Fallon catches it, her gaze lingering on the inked poem stretched across my chest.
“Once you’re pregnant, you can leave this room,” I say, the words dropping like stones into the stillness.
She freezes. The terror flickers in her eyes, the unasked question hanging between us. I’m not oblivious to her fear but don’t address it. Her reaction is swift—fear, horror, a silent scream in her eyes. No brutality, no forced submission. Instead, I remove the lightbulb, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint glow of the night-vision camera. It’s a precaution, a way to keep her in check.
“Please, leave the light on,” she begs, her voice cracking.
I ignore her plea. I glance at the camera in the corner. The red light blinks once, switching to night vision. Footsteps echo in the hall. I turn to find Maria standing there.
“Milo went and got Chinese food,” she says, holding out a plate.
“Please, eat, Fallon,” Maria murmurs, looking past me at Fallon on the bed. She glances at me, hoping I’ll allow it. I step aside, letting her in. She sets the plate down when I notice the cutlery.
“No cutlery, Maria. She can use her hands,” I say. Maria tenses, looking apologetically at Fallon, but giving her a glass plate is bad enough without adding a fork and knife.
“Can she have the spoon? It’s mostly fried rice. Milo said it’s what she used to order,” Maria asks. Fallon’s confusion is evident, but she says nothing, likely out of fear for Maria. Fallon hands back the spoon.
“It’s fine, Maria,” Fallon says. “I can use my fingers.” Maria nods, hesitating to leave, but she does, unwilling to push further.
I stare at Fallon, who stares at the plate. She hasn’t eaten in days, but she makes no move to eat. She just stares at it like it’s foreign.
“Try anything with the glass plate, and I’ll take it out on Maria. Understand?” I warn. Fallon glares, then nods.
“Can I have a light?” she asks, her voice a pleading whimper.
“No,” I say sharply. My job done; I walk out, locking the door behind me, her pleas fading as I go.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I call Rocco. “Clean up the other room,” I order. “And dispose of the body.”
The line goes dead, and so does the part of me that might have cared once upon a time.
When I shut the basement door, I turn to find Milo nursing a swollen eye. His loyalty is both a curse and an asset. He looks at me, concern etched across his face, the question stark in his eyes.
“I got Chinese and put it in the fridge for you…” He stops. “Did you hurt her?” His voice is raw, a mix of fear and anger.
I won’t dignify that with a response. I pull out the container of food Milo went and got, the scent of soy and spices filling the air as I place it in the microwave.
“Leone, answer me!” Milo spits angrily. He tosses the ice pack in the sink.
“Consider yourself lucky, Milo. She’s still breathing because I allow it. Push me further, and I might reconsider.”
I don’t wait for Milo’s response. The microwave beeps, the sound loud in the strained silence between us. I pull out the steaming container and set it on the counter, the smell of food doing nothing to cut through the tension in the room.
Milo steps forward, eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. “You can’t keep treating her like this.”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “And you can’t keep defying me.”
“She doesn’t deserve this.”
“She betrayed us, Milo. She ran off with another man.” My voice drops to a low growl, anger simmering beneath the surface. I can feel it pulsing through me, the sharp sting of betrayal as fresh as it was when I found her with Marcus. She would have left with him had we not stopped her.
Milo’s fists clench at his sides, but he holds his ground. “She was scared, Leone. And Marcus was a slimy bastard. God only knows what he told her.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say coldly, grabbing a fork from the drawer and stabbing it into the rice. “She crossed the line. She knows her place now.”
Milo’s jaw tightens. “Is that what this is? You breaking her until she submits?”
I look at him, really look at him, and for a brief moment, I see the conflict in his eyes. Fallon has done something to him. She’s infected him with her softness, her vulnerability. And that’s dangerous. I need him sharp, not tangled in feelings which could get him killed.
“How I punish my wife is none of your concern. You’d do well to remember that,” I say, turning back to my food and dismissing him.
He doesn’t move, though. “It’s my concern when you start treating her like an enemy, when you start treating me like one.”
I slam the fork down on the counter, spinning to face him, my patience wearing thin. “You’re dangerously close to stepping over the line. Don’t make me remind you where your loyalties lie.”
Milo stares at me, his chest heaving with barely suppressed anger, but he doesn’t speak. He knows I’m right. In this world, loyalty is everything, and Fallon has blurred the lines. I can’t allow that. I’ve killed men for less, and she is my wife; if I can’t keep her under control, they will see me as weak.
“I know where my loyalties lie,” he finally says, his voice quieter now, more controlled. “I’m just asking you to reconsider how you’re handling this.”
“She’s alive, isn’t she?” I reply, dismissing his concern with a wave. “It’s more than she deserves.”
I grab the container and stalk out of the kitchen, leaving Milo standing there, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.
The house is eerily quiet as I make my way upstairs, the echoes of my own footsteps the only sound. The storm outside has died down, leaving behind a stillness that feels oppressive and heavy. The food in my hand suddenly feels like a weight, like another responsibility I don’t want.
When I reach my bedroom, I set the container on the bedside table and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the darkened window. The rain has left streaks across the glass, and the dim light from the moon filters through, casting a cold glow over the room.
I can still see her face, the way her body shook with fear, the rawness of her skin where the dress had stuck to her wounds. I did that. I caused her pain.
But she betrayed me. She had to learn.
Did she, though? The thought creeps in, uninvited, and I push it away.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. Fallon is different. She gets under my skin in ways I can’t explain, and it’s infuriating. She makes me feel things I don’t want to feel—things I can’t afford to feel.
She is becoming a weakness.
The word echoes in my mind like a curse. Weakness is something I’ve never tolerated—in myself or others. Fallon needs to know. She needs to understand softness is a death sentence in this world. And if she doesn’t learn, she’ll end up like all the others who crossed me.
But why does that thought feel so hollow now?
My phone vibrates in my pocket, dragging me out of my thoughts. I pull it out, seeing a message from Stevens.
Stevens: I dropped off another first aid kit. Rocco has it.
I stare at the message for a moment, feeling the weight of it. The first aid kit is for her to help heal the damage I’ve done. But can a medical kit fix the deeper wounds? Can bandages and antiseptic heal the betrayal I feel twisting in my gut?
I toss the phone onto the bed and lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring down at the floor. The silence presses in on me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel... uncertain.
Hours pass, and I find myself in front of the door to Fallon’s new room. The camera’s red light blinks at me. Everything here is monitored and controlled as it should be. But I know Milo is watching. He is always watching her.
I unlock the door and enter, the cold air hitting me immediately.
She’s curled up on the bed, her body wrapped in the blanket, my shirt hanging loosely off her frame. She’s asleep—or at least pretending to be.
I stand there for a moment, watching her. The defiance is gone, replaced by exhaustion and vulnerability. She looks so small, so fragile.
For a fleeting second, the thought crosses my mind to turn around, to leave her to sleep in peace. But I don’t. Instead, I step forward, my shadow falling over her, reminding her no matter how far she runs, she can’t escape me.
“Fallon,” I say softly, my voice cutting through the quiet.
She stirs, eyes fluttering open. She blinks up at me, confusion and fear warring in her gaze.
“You need to eat,” I say, my tone more commanding now, as I place the container of food on the bedside table.
“I’m not hungry,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.
“You’ll eat,” I insist, grabbing the plate and holding it out to her. “You need your strength.”
I usually feed her sparingly. However, my guilt needed a reason to come down here and what better excuse than feeding her.
She hesitates, glancing at the food as if it’s poison, then slowly reaches for it, her fingers trembling. I watch as she picks at the rice with her fingers, each bite small and reluctant, and I have a feeling the only reason she is eating is because I am right in front of her. Usually, she refuses food, but she is probably afraid of me punishing her.
I stand by the chair across from the bed, leaning against the wall as I watch her eat in silence. She doesn’t meet my gaze, keeping her eyes downcast and focused on the plate.
“I’m not a monster, Fallon,” I say after a moment, my voice low. “You brought this on yourself.”
Her fingers still for a moment, then continue picking at the food. She says nothing, but the tension in the room shifts, the unspoken words hanging between us like a noose.
“Finish the food,” I command, turning to leave.
Just as I reach the door, her voice stops me.
“Leone…” It’s a whisper, so faint I almost miss it.
I turn, looking at her, waiting.
“I’m sorry about Angelo; I never would have gone in there had I known.”
Her apology is quiet, almost broken. For a brief moment, something inside me cracks. I don’t want to acknowledge it, but it’s there—a flicker of pain, proof of the loss I buried deep.
I clench my jaw, staring at her. She’s huddled on the bed, wrapped in the blanket like some wounded animal, and her words should ease the tension twisting inside me. She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known. But the sound of his name from her lips—my son’s name—it feels wrong. It cuts too deep, hitting parts of me I don’t want touched.
For a second, guilt threatens to rise again, the same guilt drove me here tonight. I try to push it away, but it lingers, gnawing at the edges of my control.
Then, another thought creeps in, cold and sharp. Is she trying to manipulate me? The timing of her apology feels too convenient. She’s been defiant for weeks, stubbornly refusing to submit, and now, just as I begin to crack, she apologizes. She says the one thing that might make me feel something for her.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. She’s using Angelo. She’s using my dead son, hoping to soften me. She thinks if she plays the right cards, if she shows a bit of remorse, I’ll go easy on her. Maybe even let her off the hook. The realization ignites a slow-burning fury in my chest, and steadily begins to smother any trace of guilt.
She couldn’t have known about Angelo… but that doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t change what’s happened. It doesn’t change the fact she crossed a line she cannot uncross.
I stare at her for a long moment, my pulse quickening as the anger simmers just beneath the surface. The sympathy I’d felt moments ago curdles into something darker. She’s not sorry. She’s scared. There’s a difference, and I won’t let her confuse the two.
And now I realize—she’s the weakness. Not me. She’s the one making me hesitate, making me doubt my own actions. I allowed her to get inside my head, to make me feel things I shouldn’t.
Weakness. She’s becoming a liability.
The air between us grows heavier, my silence stretching long enough that her eyes flick back up to meet mine. The look on her face—cautious, waiting for my reaction—only fuels my rage. She thinks she’s gotten through to me. She thinks I’ll forgive her.
I won’t.
My face hardens, and I take a step closer, the brief flicker of guilt extinguished by the cold fire of anger. “Don’t use him against me,” I say, my voice low, sharp as a blade. “You think an apology can erase what you did? Do you think it makes any of this better?”
She flinches, her lips parting, but I don’t let her speak. “You crossed a line, Fallon. And no amount of ‘I’m sorry’ is going to change your situation.”
Her eyes widen, fear creeping back in, but I don’t care. I let it fuel me. “You need to remember where you stand. You’re here because you belong to me. You don’t get to touch the parts of my life I’ve buried. Ever. Again.”
I watch her recoil, and for the first time tonight, I feel in control again. The power shifts back to me, the guilt dissolving into the shadows where it belongs.
She doesn’t say anything else, her fingers gripping the blanket tighter as if it could protect her from what’s coming. But she knows. She knows I’m not the man she can manipulate with soft words and whispered apologies.
I nod once, cold and final, as if sealing a deal with myself. She’s not getting under my skin anymore. I won’t allow it.
Without another word, I turn and walk out the door, leaving her in the darkness. And this time, there’s no hesitation, no guilt weighing me down.
As I lock the door behind me, my jaw tightens. She’ll learn. If she doesn’t—I’ll make sure she wishes she had.
The next time I face her, there will be no apologies, no softness. She’ll see who I really am.