Page 18 of His Ruthless Claim

"The doctor's on standby," Marco confirms, phone already in hand. "He'll sign whatever death certificate we need."

I check my watch - my mother's watch. Seven minutes until the family needs to be notified. Twenty until the first condolence calls start rolling in. Forty-three until I need to contact our associates about the change in leadership.

And six hours until Skye's boutique opens.

The thought crashes through my carefully ordered mind like a bullet through glass. I freeze, jaw clenching at this unprecedented lapse in focus. I've seen her three times now, always from a distance. Each time, she's moved with that effortless grace, amber eyes sharp as she surveys her domain. Her latest window display features a black dress that would suit her perfectly, the fabric clinging to curves I shouldn't be thinking about right now.

"Boss?" Bas' voice pulls me back. "The doctor's here."

I shake off the unwanted distraction, irritated by my own weakness. There's no room for such thoughts, not when power transitions require absolute precision. One mistake, one moment of distraction, and everything I've built could crumble.

But still, my mind calculates: five hours and fifty-eight minutes until those doors open.

Once the doctor signs the certificate and the boys clean up, I look around my father's study -mystudy - now pristine after hours of meticulous cleanup. No trace remains of the violence - just like he taught me. The irony doesn't escape me.

My fingers brush against the watch face again. Seventeen times in the past hour. The realization hits like ice water in my veins. This unconscious tell should have been buried with the rest of my weaknesses years ago, alongside that terrified eight-year-old boy who couldn't save his mother.

"Everything's set, boss." Bas approaches, his footsteps echoing in the now-silent room. His dark eyes flick to my wrist,tracking the movement as my thumb traces the silver edge once more. Eighteen.

I meet his gaze, letting the temperature in the room drop ten degrees with a single look. Most men would flinch, step back, make excuses. Bas knows better, but the question lingers in his stance, in the slight tilt of his head.

The crystal decanter catches my reflection - perfectly pressed suit, not a hair out of place. The external control is absolute. Yet beneath that polished surface, something shifts, unsettled. Like a hairline crack in bulletproof glass.

I turn the watch face down, hiding my mother's initials from view. The metal bites into my skin, a sharp reminder of what sentiment costs in our world. My father proved that tonight, drowning in memories and whiskey until it killed him.

"Get rid of his private stock," I order, voice devoid of inflection. "Every bottle."

Bas nods, already moving to execute the command. He's been with me long enough to understand - weakness must be eliminated, no matter what form it takes. Even if that weakness is checking a watch like a nervous teenager before his first hit.

Nineteen times now.

The recognition coils in my gut like a serpent. Not from killing my father - that was simply business, inevitable as gravity. No, this unease stems from something far more dangerous: loss of control. And I know exactly when it started.

Three casual glimpses of amber eyes and confident curves, and suddenly I'm counting minutes like they matter.

I try to lose myself in work instead. The reports spread across my desk paint a perfect picture of succession. Every captain falling in line, every account transferred, every loose end cauterized with surgical precision. Yet my attention keeps drifting to the security feed I pulled up, specifically the storefront three doors down from the camera.

I minimize the camera feed for the fourth time in an hour. My empire is expanding by the minute - I should be focused on the shipment manifests, on the new protection territories, on the two families eyeing our borders for weakness. Instead, I find myself calculating the exact distance between my office and her boutique. Eight blocks. A ten-minute drive accounting for morning traffic.

My fingers twitch toward my mother's watch again. The urge to check the time, to count the minutes until Skye's shop opens, burns like acid under my skin. I curl my hand into a fist instead, knuckles white with restraint.

"The Buetis sent their respects," Bas announces from the doorway. "Along with a request for a meeting."

I don't look up from the reports. "Schedule it for next week. Let them sweat."

"And the Cappallettis?"

"They'll fall in line or fall apart. Their choice."

I'm sure it will be the latter and I'll need Enzo to commit to me after all.

The words come automatically, strategies flowing like blood through veins. But beneath that cold efficiency, something fractures. A hairline crack in perfect control, spreading each time I remember how she moved through her shop yesterday - confident, untouchable, completely unaware of the predators circling her world.

The security feed minimizes itself again. I hadn't even realized I'd reopened it.

This is weakness. Distraction. The kind of sentiment that got my father killed. That got my mother-

I slam the laptop closed, the sharp sound echoing through my office. Bas doesn't flinch, but his eyebrow raises a fraction - the closest he'll come to questioning my actions.

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