Page 5 of His Ruthless Claim

3

LUCA

Itap my fingers against the leather steering wheel, eyes fixed on the storefront across the street where two of my men conduct their meeting, looking casual as can be. The silver Rolex on my wrist catches the afternoon sun - a reminder to keep this quick. Time is money, and I don't waste either.

The new crew could prove useful for when I take over, if they can follow simple instructions. So far their numbers check out, but numbers lie. People lie more.

Movement in a boutique window draws my attention. A woman reaches up, adjusting a mannequin's collar with precise, deliberate motions. Her sleek black hair falls in waves down her back, complementing brown skin that seems to glow under the boutique's soft lighting and the sun streaming in. Each adjustment she makes is calculated, purposeful - from the tilt of the mannequin's head to the drape of fabric across its frame.

She steps back, head cocked to one side, studying her work with an intensity that mirrors my own when assessing a target. There's power in her stance, authority in the way she commands her space. This isn't some shop girl followingcorporate instructions. She owns this place, owns every decision she makes.

My chest tightens. An unfamiliar sensation I immediately want to suppress. I haven't felt this spark of... interest... since before the accident. Before I learned that feelings are weaknesses waiting to be exploited.

She turns slightly, and I catch her profile - high cheekbones, full lips curved in concentration. A small diamond catches the light at her nose.

She isbeautiful. Staring at her has changed the meaning of the word for me because I have never seen anyone who looks…like she does. Like I must have fucking died all those years ago.

That's the only way I'd be able to see a woman who has to be an angel.

"Fuck." The word escapes before I can stop it. I grip the steering wheel harder, forcing my breathing to remain steady. Control is everything. Control is survival. Yet something about the way she moves, the confidence in her bearing, threatens to crack the walls I've built.

My phone buzzes - an update from my men inside. I should check it. Instead, I watch her hands smooth down the front of her dress, wondering how those same hands would feel against my skin.

This is dangerous. Distracting. I need to focus on business, on maintaining the empire I've built. But my eyes refuse to leave her figure as she makes one final adjustment to the display.

The phone screen illuminates with messages about the crew and our upcoming plans. Critical information I need to process. Instead, my attention drifts back to the boutique window where she's greeting a customer with a smile that transforms her entire face. The expression hits me like a physical blow - genuine warmth radiating from those amber eyes.

My fingers trace the edge of my mother's watch, an unconscious tell I need to break. The silver band feels cool against my skin, grounding me as memories threaten to surface. I haven't thought about my mother's smile in years. Haven't allowed myself to remember how it felt to be on the receiving end of that kind of genuine emotion.

"Boss?" Tony's voice crackles through my earpiece. "The numbers from the new crew-"

"Send them to my phone." My voice comes out harder than intended. I adjust my tone to something more controlled. "I'll review them later."

The boutique owner leans in close to her customer, pointing out details on a silk blazer with elegant gestures. There's authority in her movements, confidence in the way she commands the space. But it's different from the cold power I wield. She draws people in while I push them away.

The watch weighs heavy on my wrist. A reminder of weakness, of what happens when you let emotions cloud judgment. Yet I can't tear my eyes from the way she moves through her domain, how she builds connections with subtle touches and warm smiles.

My jaw clenches. This fascination is becoming a liability. I need to focus on gaining more support while my father's influence wanes, on solidifying my position before the other families realize how much power is shifting. I don't have time for distractions.

But when she throws her head back in genuine laughter at something her customer said, the sound carrying faintly through my cracked window, my grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles turn white.

A tap on the window has me jerking my head to the side where Bas is standing. His eyes dart between me and theboutique, curiosity etched across his features as he climbs into the passenger seat.

"Something wrong with that shop, boss? Want me to have someone check it out?"

Ice spreads through my veins. The question hangs between us, sharp and dangerous. My fingers still against the steering wheel as I turn to face him. His adam's apple bobs under my stare.

"Are you suggesting I need your input on where I choose to look?" The words come out soft, measured. The kind of quiet that makes smart men run.

Bas's face drains of color. "No, I just thought-"

"That's the problem." I lean back, adjusting my sleeve. The watch glints - a warning. "You're thinking when you should be focusing on your assignment. Which clearly isn't challenging enough if you have time to monitor my interests."

He stammers an apology, but the damage is done. The fact that he noticed - that anyone noticed - is unacceptable. If he was anyone else, I'd have him killed. Luckily, Bas knows how to keep his mouth shut - so he can keep his life.

My attention drifts back to the boutique despite myself. The woman has moved to the register, her fingers flying across the iPad as she processes her customer's purchase. And yet, even now she holds my interest.

Interests. The word echoes in my mind, foreign and uncomfortable. When was the last time something caught my attention that wasn't related to business or power? The closest I've come is the satisfaction of a well-executed plan, the cold pleasure of watching competitors fall.

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