Chapter 11
ELEVEN
LUCIEN
The warehouse smells like damp concrete, rust, and old oil — the kind of place where ghosts linger and men like me make more of them.
A single bulb swings overhead, its pale light cutting a hard circle into the dark.
Shadows sprawl across the walls as Anthony and Franco drag Carlo Venti toward me and drop him into a metal chair. His protests only for us to hear.
His wrists are bound tight behind the back of the chair, ankles strapped to the legs. Sweat beads along his forehead, but he still tries for defiance, chin lifted, jaw set.
I step out of the shadows slowly, deliberate. Let him watch me come.
His gaze snaps up. His breath stutters before he hides it behind a crooked grin. “Lucien.”
I don’t answer. Just crouch until we’re eye level, resting my forearms loosely on my knees.
Silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable.
He shifts against the ropes as if he knows what’s in store for him.
“You put your hands on her.” My voice comes out low, almost calm, and it cuts through the quiet like a blade. “Tell me you regret that.”
Carlo smirks, though a muscle at his temple ticks. “Matteo said she needed reminding of who she belongs to.”
A breath escapes me — annoyed and sharp. “Reminding her?” I tilt my head, voice flat. “That she once wore his ring? That his name sat on paper beside hers?” I lean in just enough for him to feel my breath. “She doesn’t wear it now.”
Carlo’s throat bobs as he swallows, but his tone stays steady. “Doesn’t matter. Romero said she was his, always will be.”
That earns him a long, slow silence. I straighten, rolling my cuffs up past my elbows with methodical precision. My hand lifts, palm open. Anthony presses the folding knife into it without hesitation. The weight settles into my grip, cold, solid, perfect.
Like being reunited with an old lover.
Carlo’s smirk fades.
The blade clicks open with a sharp snap, the sound slicing through the stillness.
I let it hang there a beat before resting the flat edge against his cheek, just enough pressure to make his breath hitch.
“Do you know what happens to men who touch what’s mine?
” My tone is soft, deliberate, dangerous in ways shouting could never be.
“Or have you forgotten what I’m capable of?
I know it’s been a few years. People forget.
” I shrug. I will seek retribution for the pain Briar suffered, whether she is in truth mine or not.
She works for me, she’s under my care, I will protect her, but even I know that’s not entirely what I meant by those words.
I want her to be mine in all ways.
He stares, tight-lipped, sweat rolling down his temple.
“That’s right,” I murmur, pressing the blade harder until a thin line of red beads along his skin and slides down his jaw. “You have forgotten. I cannot blame you, it has been some time since I’ve had to take such steps, but you’re about to get a refresher.”
Carlo hisses, trying not to flinch as I press the blade deeper. That cut will need stitches.
“You work for Romero now,” I continue, dragging the tip of the blade down the column of his throat without cutting, just enough for him to feel how easy it would be. “Tell me why he sent you to her apartment. What’s the play?”
“I don’t ask questions.” His voice cracks despite the bravado he’s clinging to. “I do what I’m told.”
“That’s your first mistake,” I whisper, leaning close enough for my words to scrape against his nerves. “Acting like a little bitch. Obedience without understanding gets men buried.”
The knife shifts in my hand, spinning easily between my fingers before I drive it down, hard, into the armrest of the chair — an inch from his thigh. Carlo jerks, breath catching in his throat.
“You think Romero’s going to protect you when this goes sideways?” I rest my hand casually over the knife handle. “You’re expendable, Carlo. A pawn he’ll feed to me if it keeps his empire intact.” I shrug. “What’s left of it in any case.”
He breathes hard through his nose, knuckles straining against the ropes behind his back. “I don’t know nothing.”
Anthony steps closer, folding his arms, his shadow falling over Carlo like a cloak. “Talk,” he says quietly. “While you still have your tongue.”
Carlo spits on the floor, blood mixing with saliva. “The Moretti name doesn’t have the fear associated with it as it once did,” he mutters, though his voice wavers. “Your family have gone soft and it’ll be your downfall.”
A laugh leaves me, low and humorless. My fist slams into Carlo’s stomach several times, leaving him gasping for air. The bruises will easily match those on Briar’s abdomen and that’ll suit me just fine. I rest my hand on Carlo’s shoulder, all nonchalance, even if I want to kill the bastard.
“Romero’s wrong,” I state. “My family hasn’t gone soft. We’ve become ghosts.” I grip his jaw and force him to meet my eyes. “But this ghoul will live tonight. Push me or come near Miss Locke again and see how that works out for you.”
I rip the knife from the chair and let the motion graze across the front of his shirt, carving a shallow M that blooms red. Just enough to mark him.
Carlo hisses, sucking in a sharp breath, but he doesn’t look away.
“You’ll carry that back to Romero,” I murmur. “You’ll show him the mark of my family and tell him that the next time one of his dogs touches her, I’ll take the hand that does. The time after that, I’ll take the man himself, and I’ll deliver their head on a silver salver.”
I press the blade to his throat. “And if he’s stupid enough to keep pushing me with goons like you, I’ll remind him why the Moretti name used to make men like him bleed before they even opened their mouths.”
Carlo shudders and looks away.
“Franco.” No need for more words, my brother knows what to do.
Franco steps forward and takes his turn in burying his fist deep into Carlo’s ribs. The sound of air rushing out of him is sharp, violent, and oh so satisfying.
“That’s for touching her,” I murmur. “Be grateful that’s all you get.”
Anthony cuts the ropes from his wrists and ankles. Carlo slumps forward, coughing, one hand instinctively cradling his stomach.
I grab his chin, forcing his gaze up to mine one last time. “Walk back to Romero’s with my warning carved into your skin. Make sure he sees it.”
Carlo hesitates, panting hard, then nods once.
Anthony shoves him toward the door, Franco and Mace flanking him on either side. The heavy steel door groans open and slams shut behind them, leaving only silence and the faint metallic tang of blood in the air.
Anthony lingers in the shadows. “He’ll run straight back to Romero, but I doubt he’ll listen to the warning. You went a little easy on him.”
“For now.” But my restraint would only last so long. My grip tightens around the knife before I flick it shut. “I want them to think we’ll not strike as hard as we once did. That we’re all talk, it’ll only make it more satisfying when Romero and his mob find out that they were wrong.”
“You know Romero,” Anthony says carefully. “Fear doesn’t stop him. It fuels him. He’ll enjoy going down in a blaze of glory.”
I glance over, meeting his gaze. “Then we’ll burn him out before we get singed.”
Anthony studies me, jaw tight. “This path? There’s no going back from it.”
“There was no going back the moment he put his hands on her,” I mutter.
I didn’t want to return to this world, but I would if it meant keeping those under my protection safe.
I would do it for any of my brothers or those who work for me.
None of them deserves to be harassed by goons who had nothing better to do with their lives than abuse others.
But to touch Briar has sparked an anger in me that’ll not be doused. Only retaliation of the same kind is the currency in which this game is played.
Anthony exhales, nods once. “Understood.”
“My brothers know what’s being asked of them and they understand,” I add, sliding the knife into my pocket. “If Romero wants to drag us back into his world, I’ll remind him why it was better that we’d stayed away.”
Anthony claps a hand to my shoulder before turning away, his boots echoing across concrete as he disappears into the night.
The warehouse goes quiet. I breathe deep, steadying the hum of adrenaline beneath my skin, but it doesn’t settle.
Not this time. Not when Briar’s name has already been dragged back into Matteo Romero’s orbit.
I picture her pale against the pillows in my loft, stubborn as hell even through the pain, and something sharp twists in my chest. She doesn’t belong in this world.
She shouldn’t be anywhere near it. That she walked into this life while on vacation in Spain, was a cruelty reserved for no one and not something anyone would choose willingly.
But Romero dragged her into the fire anyway, lied to her, led her to believe he was something he wasn’t.
A good person.
And now he’ll pay for that lie.