Page 5 of Cruel Hero

“Umberto has its uses.”

Umberto is the head of the Moroni family, the largest criminal group on this continent. His connections go far and wide, and he is always willing to make a deal. Especially when it involves acquiring valuable assets or getting back at someone who has wronged him. I didn’t need to do much to stir up trouble. A few casual remarks about Carter secretly arming Moroni’s enemies were enough to get Dean dealt with by Umberto—I didn’t have to lift a finger.

I move my gaze across the newspaper page. The press may paint Carter as a saint and a hero, but I know better. Dean was a sleazy scoundrel at best, only successful when he went behind people’s backs or bribed his way into advantageous partnerships with some very shady characters.

As I’m about to put the paper down, I see a picture that captures my attention and makes me frown.

It’s a photo of Carter’s sisters going to the morgue to identify the body of their uncle. Tiffany’s older sister holds hands with the dark-haired man while Tiffany stands near another man, her eyes downcast and her body language closed off. I see the tension in her shoulders and the haunted look in her eyes. She looks like a wounded bird, fragile and ready to flee at any moment. The man next to her is dressed in a smart suit, his expression unreadable but his stance protective.

My grip on the newspaper tightens, and I ask, “What about Carters?”

Diane lifts an eyebrow. “What about them?”

“Who’s taking over Carter Industries?”

“Tiffany Carter is the only blood relative of Dean Carter, and she’s the obvious heir. But she’s young, inexperienced, and—let’s be honest—not exactly cutthroat material. The board will eat her alive unless someone steps in to guide her.”

There’s no denying the truth in Diane’s words. Tiffany is soft-hearted, too trusting, and far too naïve for the ruthless world she’s about to inherit. She’s not built for the cutthroat politics of Carter Industries, and without Dean’s iron fist to keep the wolves at bay, they’ll tear her apart.

I look at the picture again. “Find out who’s standing next to Tiffany in the photo.”

“Do you think he’s a threat?”

The man in the photograph exudes a certain allure with his tall, lean frame and sculpted eyebrows. He looks rugged and handsome, with a thick mop of dark hair and brown eyes that are solely focused on Tiffany.

“Yes. I think that he’s a threat.”

“I’ll have Matteo to look into it right away.” Diane types something on her phone. “In the meantime, you have a conference call with Pierre Benoit in a few minutes for an update regarding your European real estate investments.”

I push the newspaper away, focusing on the upcoming conference call.

After the call, I pace the length of my office, the image of Tiffany and the unknown man seared into my mind. The protective way he stood beside her, the way her body seemed to lean ever so slightly toward him—it gnaws at me. I can’t shake the feeling that something is shifting, something I can’t control.

Diane returns with a file in hand, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. “I have a name for the man in the picture. He’s Lucas Bowler—an artist. He’s relatively unknown in the art world, but he’s been gaining traction recently with a few exhibitions at smaller galleries. As of now, Bowler doesn’t appear to be dangerous and has no criminal record.”

I clench my jaw, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. Lucas Bowler. The name feels like a splinter lodged under my skin, irritating and impossible to ignore.

I take the folder from her, flipping through the pages that contain Lucas’ biography and some of his notable works. All of them are bright and colorful, mostly abstract pieces that seem to burst with emotion and energy.

“Is he married?”

Diane shakes her head, her eyes narrowing. “No. From what I’ve gathered, he’s single.”

“Relationship with Tiffany Carter?”

“He’s been seen around Tiffany a few times in the past weeks, mostly at art events and gallery openings. There’s speculation that they’re close.”

My jaw tightens further.

Close.

The word feels like an accusation, though I have no right to it. Tiffany is no longer mine—if she ever was. And yet, the thought of her finding comfort in the arms of her dream guy—romantic, decent, and boring—fills me with a rage I can barely contain.

“Keep digging,” I order curtly, tossing the folder onto my desk. “I want to know everything about him—who his friends are, his financial history, his connections to the art world, and most importantly, his relationship with Tiffany.”

“Of course. I’ll have a full report on your desk by tomorrow morning.”

As she leaves the room, I turn back to the window, the city lights below blurred by the storm brewing in my mind. Tiffany is slipping through my fingers, and if I let her go now, I might never get her back. The mere thought of another man laying eyes on Tiffany, touching her, and kissing her makes my blood boil.

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