Chapter Twenty-Four LEO
The lock exploded inward beneath my boot with a deafening crack of splintering wood and twisted metal.
The suite doors slammed violently against the walls hard enough to shake the glass shelves lining the bar.
Smoke curled through the entryway from the charge Sergio’s men used downstairs, drifting into the luxury suite in pale gray ribbons that smelled like burning chemicals and gunpowder.
Somewhere behind me, boots thundered over marble.
Men shouted over each other. Weapons clicked.
I barely heard any of it. My entire world narrowed to one thing. Chiara. Alive.
Her blonde hair spilled wildly around her shoulders, tangled from the rain and panic.
Her oversized coat hung half-open over trembling legs.
Her eyes—those huge blue eyes that had glared at me, fought me, hated me since the moment I dragged her from her father’s house—were wide with pure animal terror.
And Angelo Moretti’s hand was wrapped around her arm. Touching her. My vision darkened . Not metaphorically. Literally.
A black haze crept inward from the corners of my sight as something monstrous reared awake inside my chest. Every instinct I possessed sharpened at once into something primitive and lethal.
Chiara was mine to lock away. Mine to protect. Mine to ruin. Mine to worship. Not theirs. Never theirs.
“Take your hand off my wife,” I said. My voice came out terrifyingly calm. That was the dangerous part.
Angelo smiled slowly, bloodless lips curling despite the gun in my hand.
Behind him, Edoardo lounged near the bar with one thick hand wrapped around a crystal tumbler of whiskey, like this was all entertainment to him.
Like Chiara standing terrified between them was some amusing little family disagreement instead of a death sentence.
Finally,” Angelo murmured. “The mighty Serpent.”
I ignored him completely. My eyes stayed locked on Chiara. Not because I didn’t see the weapons. I saw every single one. I saw Edoardo’s guards positioned near the windows. Angelo’s men near the hallway. The glint of hidden pistols beneath jackets. The subtle shift of bodies preparing for violence.
I simply didn’t care. Because Chiara was shaking. And for the first time since I met her… That fear wasn’t directed at me. I watched her eyes dart frantically between Angelo and Edoardo. Watched the truth settle over her expression piece by piece. Horror. Revulsion. Understanding.
She finally saw them. Not charming. Not powerful. Not rescuers. Predators. And I wanted the entire fucking world dead for frightening her.
Angelo’s grip tightened slightly around her wrist. Chiara flinched. Something inside me snapped completely. I lifted the gun.
“Last warning.”
The smile vanished from Angelo’s face. Good.
“Always the same, Leo,” Edoardo drawled lazily from beside the bar. “The emotional Moretti. Your father would be humiliated to see what a bitch turned you into.”
My finger tightened on the trigger. Chiara’s gaze snapped to mine. “Leo…”
The sound of her saying my name nearly gutted me. Not because she sounded afraid. Because she sounded relieved. Angelo noticed too. Of course he did. His eyes sharpened.
“Interesting,” he murmured softly.
“You have three seconds to let her go,” I said.
“And if I don’t?” Angelo asked.
I shot him. The gunfire exploded through the suite like thunder. Chiara screamed. Blood erupted across Angelo’s white shirt as the bullet tore through his shoulder hard enough to spin him sideways. His grip broke. The second he let go of her—
She ran. Straight toward me. Not away. Toward me. The force of her body hitting mine nearly staggered me backward. She crashed against my chest, clutching fistfuls of my jacket with shaking hands while panicked breaths tore from her throat.
“Leo,” she gasped brokenly. “Leo!”
Something inside me stopped functioning correctly. I had expected hatred. Screaming. Resistance. Violence. Not this. Not her grabbing onto me like I was safety.
My arm wrapped around her automatically, dragging her tightly against me while I scanned the room over her head like an animal preparing to rip throats open.
Behind me, Sergio and my men flooded into the suite with weapons drawn. Then Edoardo smiled.
“Kill him,” he ordered casually. Silence followed.Cold. Heavy. Absolute.
Not one man moved. Not one weapon turned toward me. The atmosphere in the room shifted so sharply it felt physical. Edoardo’s smile faltered first. Then Angelo’s face drained white beneath the blood running down his jaw.
Slowly, I looked around the room. Half the soldiers belonged to Edoardo. The other half to Angelo. None of them raised a gun against me. Because every single person in this city knew the truth.
I was the heir. The true Moretti.
Not the old snake rotting beside the whiskey bottles. Not the spoiled playboy bleeding onto imported marble.
Me.
One of Edoardo’s men lowered his weapon first. Then another stepped backward. Then someone near the windows quietly moved to my side instead of theirs.
Edoardo stared around the suite in disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Nobody answered him. Because nobody needed to. The crown had already chosen. And it wasn’t him. I smiled slowly.
“You thought they’d die for you?” I asked softly.
Chiara’s fingers tightened harder against my chest. I could feel her listening. Watching. Learning.
“They follow the crown,” I continued coldly. “And the crown is fucking mine.”
Edoardo snarled and reached for his gun. Everything erupted at once. One of his remaining loyal guards fired wildly toward me. Pain exploded through my side like molten metal tearing through flesh.
Chiara screamed as the bullet ripped into me. For half a second, the room disappeared in a white flash of agony. My body jerked violently from the impact. Heat flooded beneath my ribs, blood soaking through my shirt in hot waves.
Sergio roared. Gunfire detonated through the suite. Edoardo’s guard flew backward into the marble column behind him, bullets shredding through his chest hard enough to paint the white stone red.
“BOSS!”
I barely heard him. Because Chiara’s hands grabbed my face.
“Leo!” she cried frantically. “Leo, oh my God!”
Her voice hit harder than the bullet. I looked down at her. Terrified. Shaking. Crying for me. Not herself. I handed her toward Sergio carefully despite blood pouring down my side.
“Take her downstairs,” I managed.
“No!” she cried, clutching harder at me. “No, I’m not leaving you!”
Christ. That nearly fucking destroyed me. I cupped the back of her neck despite the blood slicking my fingers, forcing myself to stay upright through the dizziness clawing at my skull.
“Look at me,” I said. Her watery blue eyes lifted.
“I’m coming back to you,” I said quietly. And I meant it with terrifying sincerity. Even if I had to crawl back dying.
Her lips trembled. Then Sergio physically pulled her away despite her protests. The second she disappeared through the doorway… I stopped pretending to be civilized.
I crossed the suite in three strides and shot Edoardo directly through the knee. The crack echoed brutally through the room. The old man screamed and collapsed beside the bar, whiskey glass shattering beneath him while blood flooded across the marble floor.
Angelo tried to run. Pathetic. I caught him by the throat before he reached the hallway and slammed him into the wall hard enough to crack marble. Blood splattered across white stone.
“You involved her,” I said quietly.
He coughed blood into my face. “You already ruined her.”
The room went dead silent. There it was. The truth. And he dared speak it aloud.
“You lied about her,” Angelo rasped through bloodied teeth. “Destroyed her reputation because you couldn’t stand another man touching her.”
I smashed his face into the marble again. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough. Edoardo laughed weakly from the floor, clutching his ruined knee.
“Look at you,” he wheezed. “The mighty Serpent brought to his knees by some blonde little slut.”
I turned slowly. The old man smiled through pain and blood.
“You’re weak now,” he hissed. “Everyone sees it.”
My gaze flicked toward the massive butcher’s blade mounted decoratively behind the bar. Then back to him. And I remembered Chiara looking at me like a monster. Maybe she was right.
I grabbed the blade. Edoardo’s expression changed. Fear. Real fear. Not political fear. Not business fear. Animalistic fear.
“Leo,” he said carefully. I walked toward him slowly, blood dripping from my side onto the marble with every step.
“You wanted to know what she turned me into?” I asked softly.
Edoardo tried crawling backward. Too late. I brought the blade down. The scream that ripped from him was inhuman. Blood exploded across the marble in a thick arterial spray as his severed arm hit the floor with a wet, heavy thud beside the shattered whiskey glass.
Men physically recoiled around the room. Even Sergio went still. Edoardo writhed on the floor shrieking while blood pumped violently between his fingers from the ruined stump. I crouched beside him calmly.
“You touched what was mine,” I murmured. “Be grateful I left you breathing.”
Then I stood and dragged Angelo out of the suite.
Angelo started panicking when he realized where we were going. Good.
Rain hammered against the warehouse roof near the docks hard enough to sound like machine gun fire overhead. Rusted metal groaned in the wind while dirty water streamed down concrete walls stained dark with age and old blood.
My men dragged Angelo behind me through the warehouse while he stumbled harder with every step. Blood soaked through his ruined shirt. His breathing came ragged now, fast enough to betray real fear.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded hoarsely. I said nothing. Because he already knew.