Chapter 8
EIGHT
LUCIEN
Anthony meets me outside my office before I’ve even finished my first coffee. One look at his face and the caffeine goes tasteless in my mouth.
“We lost her this morning,” he says without preamble, voice clipped. “The tail I put on Locke — they lost her around Forty-Second.”
My fingers tighten around the mug. “What the fuck do you mean, lost her?”
“She took a different route to the subway, cut through the side streets. Before we could pick her back up, Matteo Romero showed. They spoke, from what I can gather, a short conversation, before my man caught her again and saw Romero leave her. She looked shaken but not harmed.”
Ice slides through my veins. “You’re telling me she ran into Romero? Today?”
Anthony nods once, jaw hard. “Cornered her on a side street. Cameras caught him talking to her, but no audio.”
I set the mug down slowly, deliberately, because if I don’t, I’ll shatter it in my hand.
“Get her in my office,” I say, voice low.
“Now.” The past slams into me without warning—an alley slick with rain, blood dripping from my knuckles, my father’s voice in my ear telling me to finish the job.
I shove the memory down hard. How easily that ending could have been for her.
She walks in ten minutes later, unaware I already know everything. She looks pale beneath the soft flush of makeup, her dark hair curling damp around her face from the drizzle outside. A bag clutched in her hands, eyes carefully fixed anywhere but on me.
“Miss Locke, my office. Now.” My tone halts any argument.
She freezes at my tone, then obeys silently, shutting the door behind her. I lean back in my chair, studying her. “You had an interesting morning.”
Her gaze meets mine, startled. “I—It’s not what you think.”
“Don’t,” I bite out, sharper than intended. “Don’t stand there and tell me that it’s not exactly what I think.”
She shifts her weight on her feet. “It wasn’t—”
“It wasn’t what?” I cut her off, standing now, the movement forcing her back a step even though I’m not anywhere near her.
I amend my direction, not wanting to scare her, but not liking what I’d learned.
To think she was in danger, that one of the most dangerous families could target her because of her past with them and now who she worked for irked.
I couldn’t fathom she was once married to Romero.
Couldn’t see the attraction, no matter what falsehoods he mimicked when they first met in Spain.
Matteo Romero was dangerous and anyone with half a brain could sense that.
“It wasn’t what I thought. That your ex-husband cornered you on the street on your way to my office? Did he threaten you?”
Her lip’s part, but no sound comes out.
“You thought I wouldn’t find out?” I demand. “I had security on you, Briar. Security I installed Friday after our interaction with Romero.” I gesture sharply, anger curling tighter in my chest. “What did he want?”
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” she says finally, voice low but steady. “I’m here to do a job. That’s all. My past doesn’t get to control me anymore. I told Matteo to leave me alone.”
“That’s not how this works or how the Romeros work.” I slam my palm against the desk, and she flinches — not much, just enough for me to notice. Guilt punches me square in the ribs, but I don’t soften. I can’t.
“You think you get to choose when your past stops mattering?” I say, quieter now but no less fierce.
The thought of Matteo getting his hands on the woman in front of me does things to my senses that I can’t control or understand.
I loathe the idea of her being touched, of being forced into anything she doesn’t want.
I want to know everything that happened between them, if only to seek revenge on her past hurts.
I was becoming unhinged about my PA and that was dangerous.
“Romero made sure you don’t have that choice the second he learned where you lived again and worked.”
Her chin lifts stubbornly, that quiet strength she hides beneath polite smiles blazing into full view. “I left him. I divorced him. He doesn’t own me, and he doesn’t get to decide where I work. I’m not letting him take that from me too.”
I stare at her, chest tight, because she doesn’t understand. Matteo doesn’t need to own her to ruin her.
“You think this is just about you,” I say, voice low, deliberate. “It’s not. He’s using you. Testing boundaries. Seeing how far he can push before I react. And now he knows exactly where to hit me.”
She blinks, startled. “Hit you?”
“You,” I say flatly. “He saw you with me at the meeting. He will think we’re fucking. That puts a target on your back whether you like it or not.”
She exhales sharply and looks away, the fight draining out of her posture. “I didn’t… We’re not,” she pauses, “fucking… I didn’t want to drag you into this. I thought I could leave everything that happened with him in the past.”
The sound of the word fuck on her lips does things to me, wild, uncontrollable urges that only make me more annoyed. “Well I’m in this,” I snap. “We both are.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with everything unspoken. Her chest rises and falls faster than normal, her fingers still tight around her bag like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
“From now on,” I say, stepping toward her, “you don’t go anywhere alone. Ever. I’ll have Anthony brief you on the security rotation.”
She gasps at my order. “You can’t control where I go—”
“The hell I can’t,” I growl.
“I’m not your property. I’m just your PA,” she fires back, surprising me with her intensity and backbone. “I came here to work, not to be babysat.”
The edge in her voice pulls something sharp and reckless from me. I stride up to her, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume, sweet against the steel coil of my anger.
“You think this is about control?” My voice drops low, rough. “It’s about keeping you alive, Briar.”
Her breath catches, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The tension shifts — less fury now, more heat, threaded tight between us. My cock stirs. I want this woman for myself. I want her on my desk, in my bed, in the car, everywhere.
I rake a hand through my hair, dragging myself back from the edge. “Pack a bag.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You’re moving into my loft.”
Her mouth falls open, eyes wide. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s not a request,” I say, folding my arms. “Until I deal with Matteo Romero, you’re safer with me than anywhere else.”
“No,” she says again, firmer this time. “I won’t let him dictate where I live. I won’t let you dictate it either.”
“Stubborn,” I mutter under my breath, pacing behind the desk before pinning her with a hard stare. “You think remaining in your home is a sign of strength, but it’s not. It’s reckless.”
“And what?” she demands, crossing her arms now, matching me inch for inch. “Moving into your loft isn’t reckless? Living under your roof like some…some protected urchin, waiting for permission to breathe? No, Mr. Moretti. I’ve spent enough years being caged. Never again.”
The words hang there between us, sharp and raw, her chest heaving, my pulse pounding.
What the hell happened between them during her marriage with Matteo?
Was she caged? Unable to do what other twenty-something-year-olds got up to, married or not.
Did he stop her from having friends, from having a life outside of his own?
I hated the bastard even more for making her miserable.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” I say finally, quieter than before.
“Or,” she shoots back, “I’ll get my life back once and for all.”
I stare at her, a thousand retorts tangling in my throat, but none of them land. Because damn her, she’s right — and that terrifies me more than anything Romero could do. She deserves to live as anyone would, with free will.
She thinks she can fight this alone.
I know better and it’s only a matter of time before I’m proven right. But I’ll burn Manhattan to the ground before I let Matteo Romero break her a second time.