Page 67 of King of Violence

“Impossible?” I echo, feigning offense. “I prefer...irresistible.”

He laughs at that, a soft, genuine sound that makes my chest ache in a completely different way.

“Watch my mouth,” he says, leaning forward to gently push me back down onto the bed.

“Gladly.”

He smirks, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “No.You’re still healing, so whatever ‘hands-on care’ you’re imagining? It’s gonna have to wait.”

“Wait?” I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillow. “I’ve been waiting for two weeks already.”

“And you’re going to keep waiting until you’re not at risk of tearing your stitches,” Felix says firmly, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “You’re not charming your way out of this one, Greco.”

I sigh, dramatic and exaggerated, but there’s no real frustration behind it. If anything, I like seeing him like this—confident, in control, teasing me like he knows exactly how to handle me.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” I say, throwing in a mock pout for good measure.

Felix leans in close, his face just inches from mine, and for a second, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he smirks and whispers, “You’ll survive.”

Not if he keeps teasing me like this, I won’t.

Another week passes,and the stillness of recovery has started to itch under my skin. I’ve healed enough to walk without doubling over in pain, but the weight of what’s coming feels heavier than ever. I’ve been living on borrowed time, and both Elijah and I know it. No amount of sweet-talking or political maneuvering can hold back the inevitable for much longer.

The knock on the infirmary door isn’t a surprise, but the way Elijah hesitates before opening it is. He glances back at me, his expression unusually tight.

“He’s here,” Elijah says quietly, stepping aside as our father strides in.

The room feels smaller instantly, his presence as heavy and imposing as ever. Stefano Greco may have aged, his hair more gray than black now, but nothing about him suggests weakness. His sharp eyes rake over me, narrowing when he takes in the faint bruising still shadowing my face and the stiffness in how I sit.

“You look like hell,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.

“Nice to see you, too,” I reply, keeping my tone light but wary.

He moves closer, stopping just short of my bedside. Elijah stays near the door, arms crossed, watching like he’s ready to intervene if things go south.

“I heard you almost died,” my father says, his tone clipped.

“I didn’t,” I reply evenly.

His jaw tightens, but it’s not anger that flashes in his eyes. It’s something else—something closer to worry, though he’d never admit it.

“No son of mine gets taken out by a pack of amateurs,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “The Vitales have gotten bold. Too bold.”

“They underestimated me,” I say, a small smirk tugging at my lips. “Big mistake.”

His gaze snaps to mine, and for a moment, I think he’s about to tear into me. Instead, he just shakes his head.

“Cocky little shit,” he says, but there’s a faint trace of grudging pride in his voice. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” I reply.

He studies me for a long moment, then glances at Elijah. “And you? What’s your excuse for letting this mess get so far out of hand?”

Elijah’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “I handled it.”

“Not well enough,” our father snaps. He turns back to me, his expression darkening. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Stirring up the Vitales like this? You think they’ll stop at a failed hit?”

“I think they’ll think twice before coming after us again,” I say firmly. “Especially after what Felix and I uncovered about their operations.”

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