Chapter 9 MASSIMO
I stare at her. For a heartbeat, the world fractures. She shouldn't exist here. Not like this. Not torn and bleeding and shaking in the morning light like something dragged straight out of my past and thrown at my feet.
An apparition.
A ghost.
Mercy.
If anyone in this world ever had the right to ask that of me, it wouldn't be her. She looks like she's been through a blender. Hair wild, clothes ruined, skin marked with dirt and blood and fear. Bruises already blooming beneath her eyes, on her arms, on her throat.
Just like the last time.
The memory slams into me without warning, locker room tile cold under my boots, blood everywhere, her shaking so hard I thought she'd break in half if I touched her wrong.
I hadn't turned away then.
I was a kid. Stupid. Soft enough to believe some things were worth bleeding for. I paid for that mistake. I tell myself I'm not that man anymore. I tell myself I'm stronger now. Smarter. Hard enough to survive anything.
But then I see the hand on her arm. That motherfucker's grip is wrong.
Possessive. Tight enough to leave bruises she'll carry long after today.
I can see his fingers digging in, claiming space that isn't his to take.
My jaw locks. Anger surges fast and violent, cutting through every careful rule I've built my life on.
I remind myself I'd step in for any woman.
Any woman being handled like that in my territory would earn my intervention.
That's order. That's control. That's not mercy.
So why shouldn't I do the same now?
Why shouldn't I do what I'd do anyway?
Except I know the truth.
This isn't about territory.
It's about her.
About the way she's looking at me like I'm the last solid thing left in a world that keeps tearing itself apart. Like she's already lost everything and still reaches for me.
Again.
That terrifies me more than any enemy ever has. Because I feel it, the old pull, sharp and dangerous and stupid. The instinct to step forward. To put myself between her and the world. To break the rules that I carved into my flesh just to keep breathing.
I swore I'd rather die than make that mistake again. But God help me, seeing that motherfucker hurting her makes my vision go red.
I take one step. Just one. Already knowing there's no walking away from whatever comes next.
The city exhales.
The morning doesn't hold its breath anymore.
It already knows the answer.
The eyes of the man who is holding her widen. It's subtle. A flicker. The moment he realizes the wrong man has noticed him. I stride forward. Unhurried, my gaze now firmly on my prey.
"This is none of your business," he snaps, squaring his shoulders, tightening his grip like that will save him. "Step back or—"
I would have loved to hear the end of that sentence, because, or…. What? What would that glorified bodyguard have done to me? I'm too enraged, though. I interrupt, setting him straight. "You're on my property, and you're hurting a woman," I cut in.
My voice is low. Flat. Deadly.
The words land harder than shouting ever could. My men shift behind me. Ready to finish whatever I start. I lift one hand without looking back.
Stay.
I don't need them.
The rent-a-bodyguard laughs, sharp and brittle. "You think you—"
I step into his space. Close enough that he can see it in my eyes.
Close enough to smell his cologne, his fear, the stale confidence of a washed-out special ops asshole who thinks the world still owes him respect.
He doesn't get to finish the sentence. My fist does it for him.
It connects with a dull, meaty crack that vibrates up my arm.
Bone meets bone. The sound is wrong, too solid, too final.
The man's head snaps to the side, his grip breaking as his body folds like someone cut his strings.
He goes down hard. Knees first. Air explodes out of him in a wet gasp; hands scramble for balance that doesn't exist. He doesn't even try to get back up. He just stares at the ground, stunned, blood already spilling from his mouth onto polished stone.
The Strip keeps moving.
Someone screams.
Someone films.
Security freezes.
Jenna sways.
I'm there before she hits the ground. She looks up at me like she's trying to focus through water. Half broken. Bruised. Exhausted beyond reason. Her eyes search my face like she's afraid it might disappear if she blinks.
My jaw tightens.
"Jenna," her name comes out in the same way you greet someone at a dinner party. Calm. Polite. As if the world isn't on fire.
"Massimo," she whispers in the same tone she used before she fell asleep in my arms or when she woke up.
Her eyes roll back.
"Fuck."
I catch her as she collapses. Her body goes limp against my chest, a sudden, terrifying weightlessness that hits harder than any blow.
She's lighter than she should be. Too light.
As if the world had already been carving pieces out of her while I wasn't looking.
Too fragile. Not for what she's endured.
For what's coming.
My arm locks around her instinctively, holding her upright as if she belongs there.
As if she's always belonged there. Her head falls against my shoulder, warm breath ghosting across my collarbone, her pulse flutters weakly beneath my fingers.
For a second—just one—I feel the echo of something dangerous.
Then I crush it. Because no matter why she's here.
No matter why, my body moved before my mind could stop it.
No matter why, seeing another man's hands on her made something in me snap—
She's on my casino ground now.
My territory.
My world.
And God help her—because nobody else will—I'll have my revenge on her. Fate. Gods. Whatever cruel, cosmic joke dragged her back into my orbit didn't do it out of mercy. Not for her. Not for me.
This isn't salvation.
This is judgment.
I carry her past the waiting SUV, my grip firm, unyielding, already claiming what the city dared to hand back to me. Around us, my men move with brutal efficiency, sealing off space, erasing witnesses, restoring order like this was always meant to happen.
Maybe, I think sardonically, this is divine justice. Not the kind that absolves. The kind that balances the scales with blood. Maybe this is my turn. My time to collect.
I take her back into the casino, and people gasp, hands fly to their agape mouths.
I barely notice any of it. Not really. My guards push people out of the way so I can take Jenna back up to the penthouse.
The moment the glass doors close and the outside disappears behind tinted glass, one truth settles cold and final in my chest: Whatever she came here seeking—
Protection.
Help.
Redemption—
She's going to pay for what she took from me first.
"Get a doctor. Now," I bark.
On the way to the elevator, as her head rests against my shoulder, I know one thing with terrifying clarity: There's no going back from this.
Not for me.
Not for her.
She stirs as the elevator hums upward. At first, it's just a breath, a faint shift of weight against my chest. Then her lashes flutter, long and dark, trembling as consciousness creeps back in.
She frowns slightly, as if waking from a dream she doesn't want to leave.
Her eyes open. Green. Still too bright. Still a weapon.
They find my face and lock there instantly, as if no time has passed at all.
A smile curves her lips. Soft. Dazzling.
Familiar enough to cut straight through muscle and bone.
"Massimo," she murmurs.
My spine turns rigid. That smile has ruined men. I know that now. I know what it does. How it disarms, how it makes you forget where you are, who you are, what you swore never to be again.
Sirena. Like the creatures of myth who don't drag men under by force.
They sing. They make you step into the water willingly.
And by the time you realize you're drowning, it's already too late.
The name coils through my mind, bitter and precise.
She looks at me like I'm salvation. Like she's been lost at sea and finally found land.
Her eyes light up, wet with relief, hope spilling out of her so freely it almost takes my breath.
Almost.
I harden.
I don't smile back. I don't soften. I don't give her anything.
My glare is cold enough to freeze steel.
Her smile falters. Confusion flickers across her face, quick and fragile.
Her brows knit together. She searches my expression like she's looking for something she misplaced.
Then she sees it. The wall. Her lips part slightly.
Tears well, fast and treacherous, pooling in her eyes like she's trying not to cry and failing anyway.
The sight should do something to me.
Once, it would have undone me completely.
Instead, it makes me colder.
No.
I won't let her do this again.
I won't let her wreck me with a look, with a smile, with that quiet way she has of making herself seem small and breakable when she wants something.
I know what she is now. I tighten my hold on her, not to comfort, but to keep control, keeping my arms firm around her like a restraint.
The elevator continues its ascent, smooth and silent, sealing us into a narrow box of glass and steel.
"Don't," I order flatly.
The word lands between us like a blade. Her breath catches. A single tear escapes and slides down her cheek. She doesn't wipe it away. She just looks at me, wounded, bewildered.
Good.
Let her feel it.
Because whatever she thought this was—
Whatever hope she let herself believe in—
It ends here. I won't be pulled under by a siren again. Not ever.