Page 37 of The Owner's Temptation

A breath. Another.

The door creaks open.

The man standing behind it isn’t familiar. Tall, broad-shouldered, all quiet menace wrapped in a black jacket. He doesn’t speak but he doesn’t need to.

He’s not supposed to know me. And I’m not here to make introductions.

I step inside, keeping my posture relaxed but my eyes sharp, skimming the corners and shadows. Watching for movement. Watching for tells.

I’m in the lion’s den again.

Only this time, I’m not walking in as a brother.

I’m walking in as the man who murdered his.

They pat me down before I take another step inside.

I raise my arms without a word, letting the two soldiers do their job. They’re thorough—checking boots, waistband, even the inside of my jacket lining. One gives me a look like he hopes I brought something, just to give him an excuse to throw a punch. I don’t.

I’m not here for a fight.

Doesn’t mean I’m not ready for one.

I clock ten bodies scattered across the warehouse—two near the doors, three on the upper-level catwalk, the rest posted in shadows. That means, conservatively, I’m staring down the barrels of at least twenty guns.

And I walked in with nothing but a bottle of whiskey.

It’s still in my hand when I see Lorenzo.

Sitting at a long metal table, one leg crossed over the other like he’s holding court. A cigar glows between his fingers, the cut slow and deliberate. He doesn’t look up—not yet. Just rolls the flame from a silver lighter over the end, inhaling until the tip burns orange and ash starts to form.

I haven’t seen him in years, but nothing about him surprises me. Still wears those expensive suits with the Italian cut and the dark ties. Still has that ring on his pinkie finger—his father’s. A ring that marks him as the head of his organization.

Still looks like the devil with charm to burn.

I step forward and take the chair across from him, placing the bottle on the table between us. I don’t say a word.

He finally looks at it. Not me. Just the bottle.

His lips curl slightly around the cigar, but it’s not a smile. Not even close. He flicks ash into a tray near his elbow, then leans back in his chair, one arm slung casually along the backrest.

“Took you long enough,” he says. Voice like gravel.

I settle deeper into my chair, resting one forearm on the table. “You’re hard to catch when you’re pissed.”

He laughs—one sharp breath through his nose. No amusement in it.

“Harder when I’m grieving.”

The words land heavy between us.

I nod once. “I know.”

His eyes flick to mine for the first time. Cold. Cautious.

“No apology?” he asks.

“I didn’t come to apologize.”

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