Page 38 of His Ruthless Vow

"Handling multiple things at once isn't a distraction. It's efficiency," I counter, meeting his gaze evenly.

Luca's lips curve into that trademark smirk of his—the one that makes people wonder if he's about to laugh or order their execution. "Sure." His tone makes it clear he doesn't believe me for a second. "But if she's the reason you slip up, I'll kill you myself."

There's no real threat behind his words—just an older brother's warning. Luca might be the Ice Man to everyone else, but I've seen behind the mask enough to recognize the twisted form of concern. Still, he isn't wrong. A woman like Kendra is a complication I don't need right now.

"Won't be an issue," I say simply.

The remainder of the ride passes in silence. Luca respects my space, absorbed in his own thoughts as the city slides by outside our tinted windows. When we reach the neutral territory of the Emerald Oyster, he exits with a final nod—no further warnings needed.

I direct the driver to take me to my own territory. There are men waiting for updates, businesses that need checking, and a thousand other responsibilities demanding my attention.

Yet as we pull away, I find myself pulling out my phone, checking the screen before I even realize what I'm doing. No messages. Nothing from Kendra. I exhale, annoyed—at her, at myself, at the fact that I suddenly want to hear from her first.

This woman is already taking up too much space in my head. I didn't anticipate wanting her beyond the physical, didn't plan for the way her presence lingers in my thoughts like smoke that won't clear. She's supposed to be a simple arrangement. A debt settled.

Not this... whatever this is becoming.

23

KENDRA

Isip my latte, letting the rich espresso coat my tongue while I scroll through work emails on my phone. The café buzzes with mid-afternoon energy—writers hunched over laptops, business people fitting in quick meetings between calls. I've claimed my favorite corner table by the window, sunlight warming my shoulder as I work through my lunch break.

The chair across from me scrapes against the floor. I look up, ready to politely inform whoever it is that the seat's taken—even though it isn't—when I freeze.

A man slides into the chair uninvited, his movements too smooth, too deliberate. Young—maybe mid-twenties—with dark eyes burning with that particular brand of arrogance that comes from having power without the wisdom to wield it. His jaw is sharp, set hard as he stares at me, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. He wears a tailored black shirt that stretches over broad shoulders, a gold chain peeking out at his collar.

I know what he is before he opens his mouth. The way he scans the room without seeming to. The subtle bulge at his waist that isn't a phone. The confidence that borders on something dangerous.

Mafia. One of those young ones with something to prove.

And he looks a touch too much like Enzo for it to be a coincidence.

I straighten in my seat, unimpressed. "Can I help you?"

He leans forward, elbows on the table. His eyes trail down my face to the open collar of my blouse, then back up again. The look makes my skin crawl.

"You're Kendra Washington." Not a question.

I don't give him the satisfaction of asking how he knows that. Instead, I reach for my coffee, keeping my movements casual while my mind races. Mantione? Has to be. A message from Luca perhaps?

"Ercole Rossi." He taps the table with his index finger, the gesture somehow threatening. "Enzo's nephew."

My eyebrow rises of its own accord. Enzo never mentioned family. A nephew? The resemblance is there in the jawline, the broad shoulders—but where Enzo radiates controlled danger, this man practically vibrates with volatile energy.

"Fascinating," I say flatly. "Is there a reason you're interrupting my lunch?"

His lips twitch, like he expected me to be impressed, or perhaps frightened. "I'm giving you a chance," he says, voice dropping low, serious.

I take another sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch. When he doesn't continue, I set the cup down with deliberate precision. "A chance for what?"

He leans closer, the scent of expensive cologne mixed with cigarettes invading my space. "To get out. Before it's too late."

The words hang between us like they're supposed to mean something profound. Like he's the hero in some twisted story, offering rescue to the damsel.

I nearly laugh. Instead, I lean back in my chair, studying him the way I would an underwhelming presentation at work.

"Get out of what, exactly?" I keep my voice cool, professional.

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