Page 39 of The Owner's Temptation

“You jumped the fucking gun,” Lorenzo snaps, voice still ragged from the outburst. “We were working on settling the debt. He was going to make it right.”

I shake my head slowly, evenly. “Bullshit.”

His eyes flash.

“You and I both know,” I say, voice low but firm, “once a hit goes out fromthatfamily—the Irish–there’s no settling. No pulling it back. Not unless the other side’s already dead.”

Lorenzo leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table, his voice turning cold. “He was mine to handle.”

“And you didn’t handle him,” I fire back. “So I did.”

Silence stretches thick between us.

“I won’t apologize for it,” I continue. “I don’t regret it. What I did had to be done.”

He looks away for a beat, jaw tight, but I keep going.

“I came here for peace. I want your word—on the code. No retaliation. We bury it. You grieve your brother, I move on. We end it here.”

But then something shifts.

That coldness in his face curdles into something darker. More twisted. He turns back toward me, slow, a new gleam in his eye—something poisonous.

A smile that doesn’t touch his mouth curls there, followed by a thick stream of spit he lets fall to the concrete floor.

Then, in a tone that scrapes bone:

“A pound of flesh for a pound of flesh,” he says, venomous. “Your whore gave a pound of flesh. My brother gave his life. There’s no universe where that balances on the scales.”

I don’t flinch. But I hear the scrape of footsteps. Two of his men take a step closer—subtle, but not subtle enough.

My gaze cuts to them, then back to him.

He knows better.

But rage makes men stupid.

Lorenzo leans back, tossing the cigar from his fingers like he’s throwing away the last shred of civility.

“Get the fuck out of my warehouse, Lucian.”

I don’t move right away.

The silence stretches. Heavy. Final.

Then slowly, I rise. No sudden movements. No retreat.

My eyes stay locked on his, steady and unreadable.

The weight of what we’ve become settles between us—no longer brothers, just two predators with a body between them.

I fix my cuffs, smooth my jacket. My voice is even when it comes.

“You’re supposed to be better than this, Lorenzo.”

My old friend’s jaw ticks. His eyes burn.

As I turn, he throws his last shot after me, voice laced with venom.

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