Chapter Eleven LEO #2
“You’ll meet with the wedding planner in a couple hours,” I said. “Whatever you want for the wedding, she’ll arrange it.”
Chiara laughed once. The sound was brittle enough to crack. “You think a pretty wedding fixes this?”
“No,” I said.
“Then why bother?”
Because guilt was becoming an unfamiliar weight beneath my ribs every time she looked at me like I’d destroyed her life. Because I had. But I’d rather put a bullet through my own throat than admit that aloud.
“You’re marrying me regardless,” I said instead. “You might as well enjoy the day.”
Her eyes flashed. “I will never enjoy anything involving you.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Something cold shifted through my chest. I stared at her for a long second before nodding once.
“Lock the door behind me,” she snapped. “Wouldn’t want your prisoner escaping.”
Prisoner. The word lingered ugly in the room between us. I almost softened. Almost said something human. Instead, I turned and walked out before I could make that mistake. I left the door unlocked.
Rain clouds gathered over the city during the drive downtown, turning the city dark and metallic beneath the stormlight.
The Rolls-Royce cut silently through traffic while Sergio drove one-handed beside me. Leather creaked softly every time the car turned. Low jazz played through the speakers. Rain started tapping lightly against the windows halfway to the docks.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was heavy.
Salt crept into the air the closer we got to the water, mixing with gasoline, wet pavement, and rusted steel.
Luxury faded block by block until skyscrapers gave way to warehouses, shipping cranes, and stacked cargo containers stretching toward the gray harbor.
Men disappeared down here all the time. Bodies, too.
Sergio finally glanced at me. “You’re brooding.”
“I’m thinking,” I hissed.
“Right,” Sergio said. “One of your more dangerous hobbies.”
I kept my eyes on the harbor outside. Black water churned under the cloudy sky, waves slamming against concrete docks in rough, uneven rhythms.
“Drive,” I said. Sergio snorted softly but obeyed. Another long silence followed before he spoke again, quieter this time.
“You know,” he said carefully, “most men would just fuck the girl and move on.”
My gaze slid toward him slowly. “And?”
“And you look like you’re trying very hard not to let her go,” he muttered.
The city noise faded behind us as the car rolled deeper into dock territory. Rain streaked the windows. My jaw locked hard enough to ache. Sergio exhaled under his breath when I didn’t answer.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered finally. “You’re fucking whipped.”
Thankfully, we finally arrived, so there was no need to defend myself.
The warehouse sat at the edge of the docks like a rotting corpse left out for the tide to reclaim.
Rust bled down the corrugated metal walls in ugly orange streaks.
Rain hammered the roof in violent bursts, echoing over the black harbor while cargo cranes loomed overhead like skeletal monsters against the storm-dark sky.
Saltwater, gasoline, cigar smoke, and rotting fish soaked the air thick enough to taste.
The kind of place men came to bury problems. Or create them.
I stepped out of the Rolls-Royce slowly, cold rain speckling my black coat and dampening the dark hair at my temples.
Something already felt wrong. No guards outside.
No obvious surveillance. No men stationed around the loading bays.
Which meant whoever arranged this wanted privacy more than protection.
Sergio noticed it too. I saw it in the subtle way his hand drifted closer to the gun beneath his jacket.
“You expecting trouble?” he asked quietly.
“No.” One word. Sharp enough to tighten the air between us.
Water splashed beneath our shoes as we crossed the cracked concrete toward the warehouse entrance. The giant metal door was already partially open, yellow industrial light spilling across the rain-slick pavement.
An invitation. A trap. Same thing.
I stepped inside anyway. The smell hit first. Cheap whiskey. Damp wood. Gun oil. Cigars. Then I saw them. And for the first time in a very long while, genuine shock stopped me cold.
Santino and Angelo sat in the middle of the warehouse beside Angelo Ventura, Chiara’s father, like they belonged there together.
Interesting. Very fucking interesting.
My cousins lounged back in leather chairs like this was some private poker game instead of a territorial meeting by the docks. The twins looked almost offensively perfect beneath the hanging warehouse lights.
Twenty-six years old and born handsome enough to get away with murder.
Dark hair styled carelessly. Sharp jaws shadowed with perfectly groomed stubble.
Tailored black suits stretched over lean athletic bodies built more for yachts, penthouses, and models than actual violence.
Gold watches gleamed at their wrists while whiskey swirled lazily in crystal glasses between their fingers.
They looked like socialites pretending to be mafia. And usually, that’s exactly what they were.
Women adored them. Cameras adored them. Half of the city’s elite daughters had probably ended up in their beds at some point.
The twins treated life like one endless party.
Money, power, sex, repeat. I’d spent years dismissing them as spoiled playboys too distracted by pussy and partying to become truly dangerous.
Apparently that had been a mistake. Because sitting between them was Angelo Ventura.
Chiara’s father looked exactly like the kind of man who sold his daughters for power. Fat. Sweaty. Greasy.
His expensive suit strained against his bloated stomach while sweat glistened beneath the folds of his neck despite the freezing warehouse air.
Thick gold rings covered sausage-like fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey he clearly needed to steady himself.
His slicked-back dark hair was thinning badly at the crown, and his small piggish eyes darted nervously between me and the twins like a rat trapped between bigger predators.
Coward. Evil always disappointed me when it looked this pathetic. My gaze locked onto him first. Then slowly drifted back to my cousins.
Nobody spoke. Rain battered the roof hard enough to sound like distant gunfire.
Finally, Santino smirked lazily. “Cousin.”
I didn’t move. Rage started curling low and hot inside my chest.
“Didn’t know you keep company with pigs, boys,” I said calmly.
“Funny,” Angelo drawled, swirling his whiskey. “We were saying the same thing about you.”
Sergio shifted beside me. I barely noticed. Because every piece clicked together at once. The inheritance whispers. The sudden interest in my movements. The docks.
Chiara.
They knew enough. Not everything. But enough.
“You really thought we wouldn’t notice?” Santino asked lightly.
“Notice what?” I replied softly.
“That you’re desperate,” Santino smirked. The word echoed through the warehouse. Dangerous fucking word.
“You’re moving too fast,” Angelo added. “Marriage in a week? Suddenly obsessed with heirs?” His smirk sharpened. “You practically announced Uncle’s will cornered you.”
My jaw flexed once. The twins exchanged a glance. And for the first time in my life, I saw something truly ugly behind their pretty-boy masks.
Greed. Real greed.
“You always treated us like idiots,” Santino said quietly now. “Pretty boys. Useless relatives.”
“You are useless relatives,” I reminded him.
Angelo laughed once under his breath. “There he is. The Serpent.”
“The great Leonardo Moretti,” Santino mocked softly. “King of the Moretti.”
I stared at them across the warehouse while fury coiled tighter and tighter in my chest. Not because they challenged me. Because they dragged her into it.
“You brought Ventura here,” I said slowly. Ventura visibly swallowed. Pig.
Santino shrugged lazily. “He came willingly.”
“Because he’s terrified,” Sergio hissed.
“Smart man,” I said. My smile turned razor sharp. “You think sitting beside my cousins protects you?”
Ventura paled. Good. But Santino leaned forward slowly, elbows braced on his knees now. “Here’s the problem, cousin. We don’t care about the wedding.”
“Not even slightly,” Angelo agreed. “We care about what happens after.”
Rain exploded harder against the roof overhead. Warehouse lights flickered once. I stayed perfectly still.
“And what exactly do you think happens after?” I asked.
Santino smiled coldly. “You get your heir. You unlock the estate. You become untouchable.”
“And now,” Angelo continued, “the rest of us get scraps.”
There it was. Finally. Not outrage. Not family concern. Power. Always fucking power.
“You already have more money than you could spend in three lifetimes,” I said flatly.
“Money isn’t the point,” Santino snapped.
Of course not. The twins rose together then, mirror images in black suits and polished shoes, handsome enough to distract weaker men from what they really were.
Predators. Just better dressed ones.
“You spent years building an empire around us,” Angelo said quietly.
“And now,” Santino finished, “you need something.”
My pulse slowed. Dangerously slow.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
The twins smiled at the exact same time. Cold. Calculated.
“A seat at the table,” Santino said.
“Real power,” Angelo clarified. “Control over the docks. Distribution routes. Access to operations.”
I laughed. The sound echoed ugly through the warehouse. “You think blackmail gets you that?”
“We think desperation might,” Santino smiled.
“And if not…” Then Angelo delivered the real threat. He tilted his head slightly. “Maybe Chiara Ventura disappears before the wedding.”
Silence. Absolute silence. Even the rain seemed distant. Next to me, Sergio pulled his weapon from beneath his jacket with a sharp metallic click.
Black handgun leveled straight at the twins.