Chapter 10
TEN
LUCIEN
I pull out my phone. “Anthony,” I say as soon as he answers. “Round up my brothers and bring them here on the quiet.”
“What’s happened?” Anthony askes. There’s music in the background, like he’s at a bar. Being after hours, it’s not unexpected.
“Briar was assaulted. We’ll discuss more when you get here.” I end the call and dial another number I haven’t used in years. It connects on the second ring. “Dr. Andrews,” I say. “I need you at my place. Tonight.”
“Understood,” he says, no questions asked, just that steady voice that patched me and mine more times than I like to remember. “I’ll be there within the hour.”
I slide the phone into my pocket and force myself to breathe. In the bedroom, I can hear the faint rustle of sheets. Briar’s quiet voice when she thanks my housekeeper for the water and Tylenol she gave her. She’s trying to be brave with suspected broken ribs. It puts a splinter under my skin.
How dare the bastard assault her. How dare my men miss one of Romero’s men gaining entrance to her building. Rage tears through me, and I force myself to remain still, to breathe, to think and plan.
I’ll kill him. I’ll kill them all.
It’s my only thought. I force myself to sit on the sofa and wait, to be patient and not act irrationally.
Within half the hour, the elevator pings and Anthony and all four of my brothers stalk into the room.
Hard eyes. Efficient hands. Loyal above all else.
Men I would lay my life down to protect and know that they would do the same.
We go into my office and I turn to Anthony. “What did you find out?” I ask, knowing my head of security would’ve already investigated the incident.
Anthony holds out a tablet. “We pulled a frame from the lobby camera at her building. Romero’s man entered after going out on a date with another woman who lives in the same building.
I’m assuming from the time he spent in her room that they were intimate.
From there he made his way to Miss Locke’s apartment.
” Anthony moves the video to another clip.
“From his gait and stature he looks like Carlo Venti. He was shot a couple of years ago in Chicago, walks with a bit of a limp now. He’s been running small collections for Matteo the last few months.
First time he’s ever ruffled up a woman though. ”
So that’s how the bastard got in the building without my security knowing.
At least it wasn’t because they had slipped and missed the obvious.
“A sly move with a lot of thought behind it. Clever to have him enter under the guise of dating another,” I say, revenge already forthright in my mind.
All the ways I’d enjoy hurting this man when I got my hands on him.
“Go back to Briar’s apartment. Two outside, two in the car outside, and wait. No doubt Venti will go back to make sure the message stuck in a day or two. When he does, I want him picked up clean and quiet. No scenes. No neighbors. No mistakes.”
Anthony nods. “We can do that.”
“Don’t bring him here,” my brother Gabriel says, the youngest of the family and now also the tallest. “Take him to the warehouse downtown and text me. We’ll meet there and have a little chat.”
Mace studies my face. “You want security to go for Matteo too? He’s been seen near several of our properties downtown. I’d like to have a word or two on the quiet that he’s not welcome near our assets.”
“Not yet,” I say. “We start with the dog he sent. We send him back with teeth marks. If Matteo wants a dog fight, he can start it. Until then, we do this my way.”
Anthony’s mouth tightens in a grim smile. “Your way works.”
And it would work. Lucien could almost feel sorry for Venti and what was coming for him and in time, Romero too. None of his mob would get away with their threats, no matter how mild they may be at present.
The elevator pings again. Dr. Andrews arrives with a worn leather bag and the calm that never leaves him.
“Down the hall,” I say, leaving my office to join him in the living room.
He follows me into the bedroom and Briar sits against the headboard, blanket pulled to her ribs, hair loose around her face.
She is pale but composed. Stubborn. Even broken as she is I can see she thinks this is all too much.
The sight lands in my chest in a way I don’t care to examine. It isn’t too much. It’s not enough.
“Briar,” I say. “This is Dr. Andrews.”
She gives the smallest nod. “Hello,” she whispers.
“May I?” Dr. Andrews asks, setting his bag down and moving toward the bed where he’ll examine her injuries.
She nods again and I step back and watch him work. He checks her vitals. He asks where it hurts. He palpates carefully, listening to the breath that hitches in her throat when he touches the worst bruises. He moves with a gentleness that is learned by years in the field.
“Bruising along the lower ribs and the abdominal wall,” the doctors states.
“No signs of internal bleeding, but we will keep watch. Breathing is shallow from pain, not compromise. I will give you something for tonight and tomorrow, and I want ice every two hours for the next day or so. If there is dizziness, fever, or new sharp pain, you call me.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, the first glimmer of a smile on her lips.
Dr. Andrews sets two small white bottles on the nightstand and writes a short note. “One now with water. One as needed. No alcohol. Small meals. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow.”
I walk him out and press a hand to his shoulder at the elevator door. “Thank you,” I say, grateful that she wasn’t more injured. Romero’s goons weren’t known for subtlety, not toward their targets.
“I hope whoever did this to her,” Dr. Andrew’s says, meeting my eyes, “is brought before the law to face punishment.” The doctor paused, frowning. “Keep her still. The body can heal when the mind feels safe.”
“I will,” I say.
When I return to the living room, my brothers are there. Anthony ends a call. “The team is headed to the apartment,” he says. “If Venti shows, we’ll pull him. If he doesn’t, we drag him out of whatever hole he sleeps in.”
“Text me status on the hour,” I say. “No one bothers the others who live in the building, no noise, no threats. I want no attention.”
“Understood.”
Franco tips his chin toward the bedroom. “You good here or do you want us to stay?”
“We’re good,” I say. “Be extra cautious and let me know if anything is out of the norm.”
They file out and the loft goes quiet. City light spills across my polished concrete floors.
I stand for a moment and listen to the silence.
The peace that I’ve been living with these past years is about to shatter.
But I have no choice. I won’t let Romero ruin Briar’s life, not when all she wants is to be free of his hold.
Not unsimilar to how my brothers and I have lived these past years. Always in the shadow of a family name that was as corrupt and crocked as a bent bar. We’d worked hard to move on from those mob days, but still it wants to crawl back into our lives and alter it for the worst.
No more.
I start toward her room and knock once on the bedroom door. “May I come in?”
She looks up, the lamplight soft on her cheek. The blanket is higher, and her eyes have a sleepiness to them they didn’t have before. The pills are working. A glass of water sits half-empty on the side table. “How do you feel?” I ask.
“Floaty,” she says, her voice a little rough, “but better. Dr. Andrews said I was lucky.” She swallows. “Thank you for letting me stay.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” I say.
She tries to push herself a little higher on the pillows and winces.
“Careful.” I move close and adjust the pillow behind her shoulders. I fight not to pull her into my arms and hold her. I’m not sure why this woman holds such interest, has captured my full attention, but she does. There is something about her that draws me in and it’s out of my control.
“Mr. Moretti,” she says softly.
“Lucien,” I state. “When we are alone, please say Lucien.”
Her eyes lift to mine. Something warm moves in them, unexpected and steady. “Thank you, Lucien.”
I nod, then realize that a nod is not enough. “You’re safe here. No one gets in. No one touches you.”
She exhales, the first easy breath I’ve heard since she walked through my door. “I believe you.”
Silence stretches, but it’s a different kind now. Not brittle or charged. Her fingers toy with the edge of the blanket, then stop. She looks at me like she’s weighing something on her mind and isn’t sure if she ought to say it or not. Then, to my surprise, she sits up and reaches for me.
I should pull away, but I don’t. I’m powerless to stop myself from holding her.
Her arms go around my neck, careful, tentative, then firmer when she feels I won’t pull away.
She is warm and small and shaking a little.
I hold very still until I feel that tremor ease, then I fold my arms around her, trying not to press where the pain stirs.
My hand finds the uninjured line of her back and rests there.
Her breath slides out against my throat.
I swallow, biting down the desire that rocks through me. It burns like molten lava.
“Thank you,” she says, the words against my neck, and I feel them in places I shouldn’t.
I should let her go. I don’t. Not for several rapid beats of my heart. When she shifts, I loosen my arms, but her fingers don’t leave me. They trace the edge of my collar, a quiet, absent motion that lights every nerve I pretend not to have.
She leans back just enough to search my face. We are too close. I can count the golden flecks in her eyes, the shape of her mouth, the place where fear gives way to something that looks like relief. My gaze drops before I can stop it. Her lip’s part. Mine do too.
I feel the pull like gravity. My hand lifts of its own accord, skimming up to cup her jaw, then stalls because I remember the purple bruise blossoming under her shirt and the doctor’s instructions and the fact that painkillers can turn her world into soft edges.
Make her do things she would otherwise not.
“Briar…” Her name is agony on my lips.
“I’m feeling better,” she whispers.
“You are not.” My voice is low, pained. I ache and want her with a desperation that hurts.
For a heartbeat we hover there, a breath apart, the heat of her mouth mixing with mine, the taste of this choice right on the edge of us.
Every part of me wants to take it. Every part of me says not like this.
I let my thumb brush her cheek, nothing more. It feels like too much anyway.
“Rest,” I say. “You need sleep more than anything.”
Her eyes search mine, then she nods. She eases back into the pillows, and I help the blanket settle over her.
“Will you be here?” she asks, fear tainting her tone.
“I will,” I say. “I’m right down the hall. If you need anything, you call my name.”
She smiles, small and tired. “Goodnight, Lucien.”
“Goodnight, Briar.” I switch off the lamp and leave the door half-open so I can hear her if needed. In the living room I watch the city for a long minute, hands on the back of the sofa, breathing until the old heat of anger cools into something I can use. Then I walk to my room.
The thought of her bruises is a brand on my skin. The memory of her arms around my neck is worse. I strip the day away and turn the shower on and let the water thunder against tile. I close my eyes and see the purple on her ribs and the way she looked at me when she said my name.
I’m not letting Matteo Romero take one more thing. Not from her. Not from me. Not from anyone under my care.