Page 17 of His Ruthless Claim

That one time I mentioned the watch looked like a family piece, his fingers had tightened imperceptibly around the strap. For just a heartbeat, something raw and dangerous had flickered behind those arctic eyes before the mask slammed back into place.

The bell chimes. My heart jumps, but it's just Mrs. Peterson browsing scarves. I help her select a Hermès piece, all whilewondering when I started categorizing my customers as "him" and "not him."

Jazz's warning echoes in my head. She's right - this fascination is playing with fire. I've seen how people react to him, watched them scatter like prey animals when he enters a room. The way his presence turns successful, powerful women into stammering messes.

But that's part of what draws me in. He never raises his voice, never makes explicit threats. He simply exists with such complete control that the world bends around him. While others flee, I find myself wanting to step closer, to see what happens when someone pushes back against that icy exterior.

The register dings as I finish Mrs. Peterson's transaction. 3:47 PM. My eyes drift to the door again, remembering how he always arrives at odd minutes - 2:47, 11:13, 4:29. Never on the hour or half-hour like a normal person would choose. Another calculated move, like everything else about him.

I should be scared. Should listen to Jazz and stay far away from whatever darkness lurks behind that expensive suit and those empty eyes. Instead, I'm counting minutes, anticipating that familiar silhouette through the glass, wondering what new patterns I'll discover today.

9

LUCA

Ienter my father's study with measured steps, each footfall precise against the Italian marble. The familiar scent of Macallan whiskey hits me before I spot the crystal tumbler in his hand. Don Antonio Mantione - once Chicago's most feared crime lord, now a shell propped up by amber liquid and rage.

"These fucking Cappallettis think they can muscle in on our territory." He slams the glass down, droplets splattering across his mahogany desk. The liquid catches the lamplight, gleaming like fresh blood. "Wait until I get Maria back. Then they'll see what I'm going to do with him."

My fingers brush over my mother's watch, its silver surface cool against my skin. Eight minutes since his last drink. The ritual is always the same - accusations, threats, another pour. I remain still, a statue carved from ice while chaos unfolds before me.

"Are you even listening?" He lurches forward, tie askew, though his suit remains impeccable. Always keeping appearances, even as he drowns. "You're just like her sometimes, standing there, judging. Silent."

The comparison to my mother slides off me like water. I've learned to let his words pass through me, empty as the bottles he hides in his desk drawer. My father's face reddens as he reaches for the decanter, hands trembling with barely contained violence.

"Gio has no clue who he is fucking messing wi-" He cuts himself off, gaze fixing on the watch at my wrist. Recognition flashes in his bloodshot eyes, followed by that familiar hatred. "Take that fucking thing off when you're in here."

Four minutes since the last drink. His movements grow sloppier, shoulders swaying slightly as he rounds the desk. I don't move, don't flinch. There's a certain power in stillness that unnerves him more than any reaction could.

"You want to talk business?" I keep my voice level, empty. "Or should I come back when you're sober?"

The crystal tumbler shatters against the wall behind me, but I don't turn to look. Shards rain down, a symphony of broken things - like everything else in this room.

My father lunges, years of drinking slowing his once-lethal reflexes. The silk tie becomes a garrote in my hands, wrapped and twisted with surgical precision. No wasted movement. No rage. Just the quiet efficiency that's made younger soldiers whisper about me in dark corners.

His nails scrape my forearms, leaving red crescents I'll wear like medals. The watch - my mother's final gift - catches the lamplight as I maintain the pressure. Eight pounds of force to collapse a windpipe. Twelve to ensure death. Basic anatomy, really.

But the feeling of losing this parent dredges up memories I wish would stay buried.

The car metal had been cold that day, twisted around us like a metal coffin. My small hands pressed against my mother's wounds, blood seeping between my fingers no matter how hardI tried to hold it in. Her eyes - so like mine - had dimmed slowly, each breath a battle until there were no more breaths to fight for.

I'd been powerless then. Now power flows through every calculated move, every precise application of force. The tie cuts deeper. My father's struggles weaken, his expensive Italian loafers scuffing patterns in the marble floor.

"You ungrateful-" The words wheeze out between desperate gasps. "Of course. You're just… like... me."

The words hit their mark even as his body goes slack. My grip never wavers, the pressure exact and unwavering. Like me? No. He was chaos and emotion, a hurricane of violence and drink. I am the void that follows - cold, precise, empty.

The watch digs into my palm, its edge sharp enough to draw blood. A single drop falls, staining my father's collar. Red on white. Just like that day in the car. But this time, I'm not the helpless child. This time, I choose who lives and dies.

His final breath rattles out, and I hold for exactly thirty more seconds. Precision in all things. Even death.

I release my father's body, letting it slump to the marble. My Brioni suit remains immaculate - not a wrinkle, not a speck of blood. Waste of good silk, that tie.

"Clean this up." My words cut through the silence as Mickey and Ace enter. They'd been waiting outside, as always. "Make it look natural. Heart attack from years of drinking. Nobody questions when an alcoholic's body gives out."

I can't have the families going around thinking I'm power hungry. It's better if it looks like dear ol' dad just pushed himself too far.

Mickey and Ace move with practiced efficiency, already knowing their roles. I've run this scenario a hundred times in my head, each movement choreographed like a deadly ballet. The broken glass gets swept away, the whiskey bottle positioned just so. Even in death, appearances matter.

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