Chapter 2
Maximo Luciani
Constance Monroe.
The woman stormed into my house dripping rainwater, called me a son of a bitch to my fucking face, stabbed her finger into my chest, wrung her hair out on my shoes, and didn’t flinch when half a dozen armed men aimed guns at her. And I invited her to stay.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve dealt with senators, serial killers, heroin traffickers, and kings of empires. None of them has ever stood toe-to-toe with me on my own damn staircase and refused to back down.
But she did.
There was no fear in her. Just grief. Grief burning so hot it melted everything in her way, including her common sense.
I should’ve found her disrespectful display infuriating.
Instead, I found it to be…enthralling.
And that’s a dangerous reaction. One I don’t get to have. Not with her. Not with the daughter of a man who died under my protection.
“Enzo,” I say, and he instantly appears on the floor above us.
“This is Constance Monroe. She’ll be staying with us.
Give her one of the guest rooms. Constance, Enzo is my cousin, and the only captain I trust completely right now.
I’ve brought him and his crew here to guard my home until we find out who betrayed me and your father.
One of his men will bring your things up from the car, and someone will stay outside your room to attend to any needs you may have. ”
And to keep an eye on you.
“Your phone will be returned to you once our security team clears it.”
“Fine,” she replies, her eyes wide, looking like she’s a little out of her depth. She came here to vent, not with the intention of staying, of accepting a deal from me. I expect it’ll take some time for her to wrap her head around everything.
“Enzo, I’ll be in my office for the rest of the afternoon,” I say as I turn to leave. “Dinner is at eight,” I say to Constance over my shoulder. “You’ll eat with me.”
“Is that a request?”
“No,” I reply. “It’s an order.”
I don’t wait for her reaction before I disappear down the hall. I already know that she hates me, blames me for Robert’s death. And I hate that she’s not wrong.
Someone in my own fucking crew betrayed us. Betrayed me. And when I find out who they are, there won’t be enough of them left to bury.
And now, apparently, I’m going to have to find them with Constance next to me, reminding me of my failure every second of the day.
When she stormed into my house shaking with fury, rain plastering her hair to her face, her eyes red from crying, I fucking froze.
Because her grief, her anguish, dragged me backward through a decade of memories to the night my father died. The night my mother collapsed onto the kitchen floor, sobbing so violently she couldn’t breathe.
I was twenty-two, but that night I felt like a child. Helpless, unable to do anything to ease my mother’s pain. I couldn’t comfort her, and I sure as fuck couldn’t bring my father back.
Crying women are my one weakness, and I hate it. That’s the reason I left a note under her hotel room door, rather than knock. Why I stayed in the SUV at the funeral. I wanted to approach Constance at the graveside.
But as soon as I saw her, soaked to the bone, her shoulders shaking while saying goodbye to her father…
I couldn’t fucking do it.
I watched from behind the darkened glass of the SUV, angry at myself, just like I’d been through my mother’s grief.
If I had gotten out, if I stood close enough to hear her cry, then she might have seen something in my face I don’t allow anyone to see. And I can't afford that. Not with her. Not with anyone.
When she noticed me there, she even called out my cowardice by flipping me off.
Then she showed up at the house, and she was no longer crying.
She was fucking furious. And I realized something immediately: Turning her away wasn’t an option.
Not because she needed me, though she does.
And not because she’s reckless enough to get herself killed if left alone, although she clearly is.
No, I made a deal with her for two reasons. I didn’t want her to leave. And to keep her here, I knew I had to give her something significant enough to appease her wrath.
I’m not happy about caving, allowing her the opportunity to seek her revenge that won’t make losing her father any easier. And I’m not na?ve enough to mistake my attraction to her as anything other than a fucking problem.
But something about her—her fire, her rage, her grief carved into determination—hit me in a place I don’t allow to exist anymore.
She stood over her father’s grave while I sat in a silent car, watching her.
Then she came after me.
Fucking hell.
I move through my office now, pacing, my palm still tingling from the imprint of her hand that I shook harder than I needed to.
Maybe I wanted her to feel the weight of the world she just stepped into.
Maybe I needed her to know she wouldn’t be in control of this going forward. Even though the truth is that she took control of me the second she walked through my door.
I slam my fist onto the desk, hating the weakness of that thought.
A woman who despises me, a woman who looks at me like I’m the one who lit the match that took her father’s life, stormed her way up my staircase to demand answers.
I should want her gone, out of my sight and out of my world.
Instead, I find myself thinking of her raw, shaking voice as she said she’d kill the men responsible herself.
And goddammit, I believe her.
I’ve underestimated people before, but never twice.
Constance Monroe is unlike anyone I’ve ever met.
And whether I like it or not, she’s now tied to me through a vow of vengeance. She has no idea how dangerous this will be. But it’s too late to try and convince her to leave the retribution to me.
She’s in this now, and there’s no fucking way I’m letting anything happen to her.
Whether she hates me, or especially because she hates me, I won’t fail her like I failed to protect her father.