Page 57 of His Ruthless Claim

My phone buzzes. For a moment, hope claws through my chest. But it's just Mickey, reporting that she's opened the boutique as usual. Two of my men are watching her, but she knows they're there. Knows I won't let her go unprotected even if she hates me.

The thought of her hating me twists something vital in my chest. It's an alien sensation - this desperate need to fix what I've broken. I've never given a fuck about anyone's opinion of me before.

I check the watch again. And again. The ticking fills my skull until I want to rip it off my wrist. But I can't. Won't. It's all I have left of my mother, and now it's counting down the seconds until I lose someone else.

Twenty-seven hours. Eighteen minutes. Nine seconds.

The control I've built my life around crumbles with each tick of that fucking watch.

At some point, Bas manages to wrangle me from my office, though he has to dodge a swing or two. He thinks work will do me good.

The only thing that will do me good is Skye.

The territory meeting drones on, voices blending into meaningless noise. I tap my finger against the mahogany table, counting seconds. Twenty-eight hours, forty-two minutes, thirteen seconds.

"The Rossi family's pushing into the west side." Bas slides another folder across the table. "They're claiming-"

"That boutique on seventh's becoming a problem." One of the newer enforcers cuts in. I don't remember his fucking name."Right in the middle of disputed territory. Could be collateral if things get messy."

My hand stills. The room temperature drops ten degrees.

"What did you say?" My voice comes out soft, controlled. Too controlled.

He shifts in his seat, adam's apple bobbing. "The boutique. It's, uh, in a vulnerable position if-"

The table flips. Files scatter. Coffee splashes across expensive suits. I have him by the throat before anyone moves, slamming him against the wall hard enough to crack plaster.

"Say another word about that boutique." My fingers dig into his windpipe. "I fucking dare you."

"Boss." Bas's voice sounds far away. "He didn't know."

The enforcer claws at my grip, face purpling. Someone touches my shoulder. I whirl, ready to strike, but Bas has put space between us to dodge my strike. Behind him, the room's already clearing. Chairs scrape. Shoes shuffle. The door clicks shut behind the last retreating figure.

I release him. He crumples, gasping.

"Get out."

He scrambles away, leaving me alone with the wreckage. Papers float like dead leaves. Coffee drips onto Italian leather shoes that cost more than most people make in a month.

The watch ticks. Twenty-eight hours, forty-four minutes, seven seconds.

My reflection fragments across shattered coffee cups. Ice blue eyes stare back - wild, unhinged. Just like his used to be. Just like my father's when he'd stumble home drunk, raging about my mother's death.

I've become exactly what I swore I'd never be. A man who hurts what he claims to protect.

The watch keeps ticking, each second a reminder of how spectacularly I've failed.

I don't even remember moving after that. It's like I blink and I'm standing in my mother's sitting room, where everything remains frozen in time. Her half-finished needlepoint still rests on the mahogany side table. A book lies face-down, marking a page she'll never finish. The air feels thick with dust and memories.

"I thought I'd find you here." Maria's voice breaks through the silence. Her heels click against hardwood as she approaches. "You only come here when you're spiraling."

"I don't spiral."

"Right." She settles onto the pristine white sofa, her dark curls a stark contrast against the fabric. "That's why you're standing in a shrine to your dead mother at three in the morning."

I trace the edge of a silver picture frame. My mother's smile beams back at me, forever preserved behind glass. "What do you want, Maria?"

"To understand why you're letting her get to you like this." She crosses her long legs, studying me. "You haven't lost control like this since..."

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