Page 41 of His Ruthless Claim

The crack of his finger breaking cuts off his protest. I don't recall moving to snap it, but his scream echoes off concrete walls. Fascinating how muscle memory takes over in these situations.

"Let's try again." I adjust my watch, ensuring no blood mars its surface. "Who sent you?"

"Please..." Another finger snaps. His howl pierces the air. "Figarello! It was Alfonso Figarello!"

I pause behind him, placing my hands on his shoulders. He flinches. "And what were his exact instructions?"

"Just... just to watch her. Track her movements. Report back who she talks to, when she's alone."

Ice spreads through my veins. My fingers dig into his shoulders until he whimpers. "You were planning to grab her."

"No! We wouldn't-"

The lie dies as I slam his head forward. Blood sprays from his nose across the concrete floor. "Don't insult my intelligence."

How odd. I never react like that.

Mickey hands me my favorite knife - platinum handle, perfectly balanced. The blade catches the light as I bring it to the man's throat.

"The Cappallettis need to understand something." I press just hard enough to draw blood. "Anyone who threatens what's mine will beg for death long before I grant it."

His screams echo through the basement for hours. By the time I'm finished, what remains barely resembles human. The message will be clear - I may run legitimate businesses, may appear civilized, but I'm still my father's son.

I check my watch. 3 AM. Time to send Alfonso his gift.

"Clean this up," I tell Bas. "Make sure he's displayed somewhere the Cappallettis will find him. I want no doubt about what happens when they cross this line."

I climb the basement steps, leaving bloody footprints in my wake. The metallic scent clings to my clothes, my skin, my hair. Tonight's work was... necessary. A message had to be sent. The Cappallettis need to learn that I'm not my father - I'm worse.

The house is quiet as I climb to the main floor. A lamp burns in the living room, casting long shadows across hardwood. Skye sits in my leather armchair, dressed in those silk pajamas that Ican't get enough of. Her eyes track my movements as I approach, taking in the crimson stains on my white shirt.

She rises without a word, disappearing into the bathroom. Water runs. She returns with a warm washcloth and first aid kit, gesturing for me to sit.

I catch her wrist before she can touch me. "You don't have to do this."

"I know." Her voice stays steady but I catch the slight tremor in her fingers as she pulls free.

The washcloth glides across my knuckles, revealing split skin beneath dried blood. Her touch is gentle, methodical. Clinical. Like she's detaching herself from what this blood means, what I've done.

"You're shaking." I capture her chin, forcing her gaze to mine.

"Am I?" A ghost of her usual sharp wit, but her eyes give her away. They always do.

"If you're afraid-"

"Not of you." She dabs antiseptic on my knuckles, making me hiss. "Of what you make me feel. I should be running. Any sane person would."

"Then run."

Her fingers still against my skin. "Is that what you want?"

No. The answer burns in my chest, foreign and unwelcome. I want her safe. Protected. Mine. Even if my darkness threatens to consume her light.

"I'm not good for you." The words scrape my throat.

She laughs, soft and dangerous. "I never wanted good." Her lips brush my cleaned knuckles. "I wanted real. I wanted to feel something that I knew no one could ever break. And when it comes to me, Luca, I'm learning there are no lengths you won't go to."

The gesture undoes me. I pull her into my lap, uncaring of the blood still staining my clothes. Her hands frame my face as she studies me with those perceptive amber eyes.

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