Chapter 25
Lucio
F uck! Why do I even care that she’s retreating?
I shouldn’t want to pull her back into my orbit. Shouldn’t want to keep her obsessed. But for some fucking reason, I keep trying to pull her back into my life when she tries to back out.
She’s a wild card, one I can neither control nor predict, and that fact alone should have me running in the opposite direction, but I’ve never been one to not enjoy attention.
Especially from someone who actually intrigues me, interests me.
But for the life of me, I can’t figure the fucking reason for this sick fascination with some girl who has been stalking me.
That kiss was explosive, and I don’t think I’ll ever get to experience something like that again. Not unless she lets me. And from the looks of it, we’ll be playing this back-and-forth dance for the rest of eternity. It’s driving me fucking insane as I tug at the roots of my hair.
I kick my small coffee table out of the way as I head toward my liquor cabinet. Ditching the glass, I drink straight out of the bottle. The vodka burns its way down my throat; I wince, wiping at the corners of my mouth I try to think of something, anything, to numb whatever it is I’m feeling.
This shit isn’t supposed to happen. I don’t do feelings, for fuck’s sake. I’ve spent so long avoiding looking at my thoughts to just have them be stomped all over by some short, curvy Asian girl. And that shit pisses me off.
The glass bottle shatters against the wall, the clear liquid sliding down the pristine walls of my apartment.
I’d usually drown myself with alcohol and girls when my thoughts get too much, but even that is not possible now.
Because I don’t want anybody but her. I’ve barely had a taste, and I’m already fucking addicted.
I need a fucking cold shower.
“Any progress with finding the shitface who’s been fucking up our business?” Emiliano directs his question to Matteo, who’s sitting beside me.
Matteo shakes his head. “No. Whoever is behind this is clever enough not to leave any evidence that could tie them back to the scene. I’m still combing through the footage from the night of the event, but it’s really hard to figure anything out when there’s no cameras facing the area where the Hoffman girl was found.
But the last person she was talking to was some British business empire heir. ”
“Have you looked into him?”
Matteo slides Emiliano a folder. “That has all the information you need to know about the British guy. I doubt it’s him because he was seen leaving the event an hour before the estimated death time.”
I’m on edge, unsure how close they are to finding out her true identity.
“Lucio.”
“What?” I ask Eli.
“I’ve called your name three times. What the hell could be so important that you’re zoning out in the middle of a fucking meeting?” His gaze narrows on me as if he can read what the hell is on my mind.
I run a hand through my hair, a little frustrated.
“Nothing. This meeting is just such a fucking bore. I’d rather be anywhere but here,” I joke, trying to distract them from the fact that I’m a fucking wreck because I know what will happen if they find out about Princess.
Being a woman won’t safe her from the death grip of the Camorra.
I just hope they won’t look further for her, that they’ll let this die down.
But I know that won’t happen because the moment she chose to kill in the Camorra’s territory, stirring up shit for us, she was done for.
You mess with the business, you mess with the entire Camorra, and there is only one way to pay the price.
With your life.
Eli rolls his eyes, fed up with my shit. “Get the fuck out of my office, asshole. The meeting’s over for now. Matteo, I want you to ditch those security recordings and look for whoever is pulling this shit using something else. The recordings are a dead end.”
Matteo nods. Chairs scrape against the marble floors. And everyone files out of the room.
“Want to head to the ring for a session?” Matteo asks me as we both head toward the stairs instead of the elevator.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Fuck yeah. I want to kick your ass today.”
He shakes his head. “You wish, asshole.”
When we step out of the building, the sky is gray, dark clouds rolling overhead.
“It looks like it’s about to storm,” I say, sliding into the driver’s seat of my car while Matteo slides into the passenger seat.
“They did say something about a blizzard,” he says as I pull out of the parking garage and drive into the streets of Manhattan.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath.
I fucking hate blizzards. That shit always has you locked up at your place with practically nothing to fucking do.
I press my foot to the pedal, the car gliding smoothly against the street, the city moving in a blur. “I need you to find something out for me.”
“Is it about Stefano’s niece?”
His question has me regretting even bringing up the topic because it means that he’s suspicious. And Matteo being suspicious about anything isn’t good.
When I don’t answer, he says, “It is, isn’t it? I told you to stay away from her. She dangerous. Even if you’re the Capo’s brother, it doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, and I have to take deep breaths to not tell him that it’s too fucking late for that warning, because she’s already buried so deep under my skin that I’d have to tear myself to shreds to get rid of her.
Ignoring what he said, I tell him, “I need you to find out who she’s engaged to.”
When I ease the car into park, the car doors slam behind us.
“Since when have you ever cared if a girl is in a relationship or not?”
He’s right. Whenever I “pursue” someone, I don’t really care if they’re in a relationship or not.
But I need to know who the asshole is who thinks he can have her, as if he has a right to.
She was mine from the moment I saw her, and I won’t let anyone take her from me, let alone some scummy lowlife who won’t know how to handle her fire.
“Will you do it or not?” I ask him as we head into the changing rooms.
“She’s engaged to Daniel Morgan. Some politician’s son.”
Not for fucking long. I give him a nod to let him know I heard what he said before throwing on a change of clothes so we can box.
It doesn’t take us long to tape our knuckles. We hop into the ring, the lights dim and the strong stale smell of blood singeing my nose, but I ignore it. I go for a fake punch; Matteo dodges and goes for the same move, warming up before we actually start.
For some reason, the ring feels smaller tonight. Not because of the space, but because of the weight pressing down on my chest. The unspoken words. The questions burning through my skull.
Does he know? Does he not?
Matteo and I circle each other, the dim, flickering lights overhead casting long shadows across the canvas.
The scent of sweat, old blood, and something sharper lingers in the air.
My brother’s expression is blank, unreadable.
The same fucking face he wore when he was a kid, sitting at the dinner table while our father talked business with Emiliano.
A jab comes fast—a testing hit, meant to probe. I block, shifting my weight back, forcing my breathing steady.
“Have you gone a date with her yet?” I ask, feigning a left hook before cutting sharp to the right.
Matteo dodges, barely, his gaze flickering up. His lip curls slightly. “Who?”
I snort. “Don’t play dumb. Your bride.”
His head tilts, like the concept of having a wife is something foreign. Something beneath him.
“No,” he finally answers, throwing a sharp counter. I deflect, stepping back just in time to avoid the full force of it. “There’s another party next week. The Hoffmans are throwing it for both our families.”
Another party. A show. A fucking circus.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist, letting his words settle. Matteo is detached, as he always is. Like marrying a stranger means nothing.
I watch him carefully, measuring the way he moves. Looking for tells. Looking for cracks.
“You don’t care?” I ask.
He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders, loose and unbothered. “Should I?”
I go for a body shot, hard and fast, but he shifts at the last second, my fist grazing his ribs instead of crushing them.
“I don’t know, Matty.” I grin, stepping back. “I’d think any man would care about the woman he’s about to marry.”
Matteo lands a clean jab to my side, making me hiss, the sharp pain radiating through my ribs.
“That’s your mistake,” he mutters. “Thinking I’m like other men.”
I breathe through it, gritting my teeth and rolling my neck to the side until it pops. “And what about her? You think she’s looking forward to being your little Camorra bride?”
He shrugs. Fucking shrugs . “She’ll learn.”
Cold. Distant. Just like always.
I feint another hit, testing, watching for how he reacts. If anything about this has gotten under his skin. But Matteo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Just like he never did when our brother made his choices for him.
There’s a reason it’s him taking the deal, not me. Matteo’s a machine. Programmed to take orders. To adapt.
Me? I’d sooner put a bullet in my own skull than let some suit hand me a fucking leash.
I step back, shaking my wrists, my knuckles sore from the impact. “Do you even care who she is? Or is it just another business transaction to you?”
Matteo tilts his head slightly, watching me like I’m an idiot for even asking.
“Why would I care?” His voice is even. Bored. Like none of this means a goddamn thing.
I let out a low laugh, shaking my head. “Jesus, Matteo.” I flex my jaw, testing the ache from where he clipped me earlier. “They could be marrying you off to some spoiled, neurotic little daddy’s girl, and you’d still stand there acting like it’s just another fucking Tuesday.”
He exhales through his nose, going for a quick jab. I block it, watching the way his muscles shift, the tension in his stance. Unbothered. Distant. Calculating.
“The way I see it…” Matteo mutters, dodging my next hit with a sharp, effortless pivot. “She doesn’t have to like me. She just has to be useful.”
I pause.
And that right there? That’s the problem.
I know Matteo. I know how his brain works. And if he sees this as a business deal, that’s exactly how he’ll treat her. Cold. Clinical. Like an asset.
I wipe the sweat off my brow, cracking my neck as I watch him reset his stance. “What if she doesn’t want to be useful?”
Matteo shrugs. “Then she’ll learn.”
I snort. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” His voice is even, calm. “She’ll learn that resisting gets her nothing. That fighting is pointless. She can either accept the situation and make her life easier, or she can make it miserable.”
I shake my head, stepping back slightly and rolling my wrist. It’s the same tone he used when he was thirteen and he was forced into killing a man. Like he’s already accepted it. Like he doesn’t see another way.
I arch a brow, testing him. “What if she runs?”
Matteo’s mouth twitches—just barely. But the darkness that flickers in his eyes? That’s fucking real.
“She won’t.”
It’s not a guess. It’s a promise.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist, watching him carefully, waiting for something—anything—to suggest that he’s more than just a fucking machine going through the motions.
But Matteo’s already resetting. Already moving past the conversation, waiting for my next punch. Like the discussion is over. Like it never mattered in the first place.