Page 30 of His Ruthless Claim

The heavy door closes behind Alfonso and his men, leaving Enzo and me alone in the stifling quiet. The muffled bass from the club thrums beneath our feet.

"That could have gone worse." I straighten my cuffs, studying the way Enzo's shoulders remain rigid with tension. It's clear that he has no trust in the men he should.

"Look, about Maria-" he starts.

I cut him off with a raised hand. "I know what you want, Enzo." I stand, adjusting my jacket. "The Cappallettis won't give you that. And I meant it when I said I was working on it."

His jaw tightens. The intricate tattoos on his forearms flex as he clenches his fists. "You need to work faster."

He's not wrong. There's only so much waiting the Cappalletti Don will do.

"I can make things happen for Maria." I tap my watch, the silver catching the dim light. "The right introductions. The right pressure points. All it takes is loyalty."

"And trust?" His gray eyes narrow.

"Nothing is more important than family, Enzo." I hold his gaze, letting the weight of my words sink in. "Loyalty and trust go both ways. The question is - are you family?"

The silence stretches between us. I can see the calculations running behind his eyes, weighing options, measuring risks. Finally, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"We'll be in touch." He nods once, sharp and decisive.

I watch him leave, already knowing the Cappallettis have no intention of negotiating for Maria. They're playing a longer game - using her as leverage against what remains of the Mantione family. Against me.

But I'm certain that I just have to push Enzo a little more, finish slotting everything I need into place, and then I'll have everyone right where I want them. My cousin back and a brand new capo with plenty to prove.

The sun is bright when I leave Hell's Belles and head downtown for my office. But when I get up there, Bas stands by my desk, a manila folder gripped in his hands. His usual stoic expression carries an edge of tension.

"The new crew's report." He places the folder in front of me as I settle into my chair. "There's been movement near their territory."

The photos spill across my desk. Cappalletti soldiers lingering outside familiar storefronts, their black SUVs circling the block like vultures. My thumb traces the edge of my watch as I recognize the sleek facade of Skye's boutique in the background. The crystal face digs into my skin as my grip tightens.

"They're testing the borders." Bas points to a timestamp. "Three drive-bys yesterday alone."

I spread the photos methodically, arranging them by location and time. Each one features Skye's block. My pulse quickens, but my expression remains carved from marble.

"Your orders?" Bas asks.

The sight of armed men so close to her store triggers something primitive in my chest. An unfamiliar sensation I quickly lock away. "Have the crew send a message." I tap one photo where a Cappalletti soldier stands too close to Skye's front window. "And put our best marksmen in one of the high rises with clear sightlines for a few days. Let's see how they react when we take some of their guys out."

"Consider it done." Bas gathers the photos, but I keep one - Skye visible through her store window, arranging a display. The sunlight catches her profile, illuminating the amber warmth of her eyes.

I slide the photo into my desk drawer. The territory isn't what needs protecting. She is. And I'll paint the streets red before I let anyone threaten what's mine.

"One more thing." I check my watch. "Get me everything on her security system. Building blueprints. Staff schedules. I want to know every possible entry point."

"For defense purposes?" Bas asks carefully.

"For now." I turn to the window, dismissing him. My reflection stares back, cold and controlled, while beneath mycarefully constructed facade, something dark and possessive stirs.

I try to lose myself in my work, but it feels impossible. I can't stop thinking about her, checking my watch, and finally, I give in.

I pull up the security feed from Skye's store on my phone. She's closing up, those long graceful fingers flicking through receipts at the counter. The amber in her eyes catches the light as she glances up at a noise off-camera. My thumb traces my watch again. 6:17 PM.

I watch Skye move through her closing routine, each motion precise and graceful on the security feed. My jaw clenches as she approaches the front windows to lower the blinds. Too exposed. Anyone could have a clear shot.

The thought hits like ice in my veins. I grip my watch, the metal digging into my palm. Eight years old, trapped, watching helplessly as life drained from my mother's eyes. Never again.

Skye isn't mine. Not yet. But she will be.

---