Page 45 of The Owner's Temptation

Then he meets my eyes.

“Don’t do what she did,” he says softly. “Be better.”

Lucian’s eyes flick to something behind me—someone else, maybe—and he gives the faintest nod. Then his eyes are back on mine.

“Show me.”

Then he steps back, that cool, controlled presence folding into the crowd once again like smoke in the air. Leaving me breathless.

And burning.

The rain’s long gone, but the city still feels wet—like it’s holding its breath.

Up in the main conference room of The Ledger, the table is sleek, the chairs are filled, and every man here knows exactly why we’re meeting. No one’s wasting time.

I pull out the file I prepared at five this morning and slide it to the center of the table.

Lorenzo DeLuca.

Three sets of eyes lock on the name. No one flinches. That’s why they’re in this room.

“He’ll retaliate,” I say plainly. “We all know it. He lost a brother. His pride. He’ll want blood for both.”

Rian, head of personal security, nods once. “So far he’s keeping it quiet. But we’ve got eyes near the docks and his warehouses. Traffic’s up.”

“He’ll test the waters.” My fingers tap twice on the folder. “Look for cracks.”

I lean back, lacing my hands in front of me. “There can’t be any.”

No one answers. They know better.

I shift the conversation. “Until he shows his hand, I want protection increased around all high-profile companions. Start with Sera.”

A few glances pass. Everyone knows why.

“She’s the reason Enrico got himself killed,” I say flatly. “And now she’s vulnerable. Lorenzo’s not in his right mind, and I’m not taking chances with someone who’s already been through hell.”

Killian steps forward without hesitation. “I’ll see to her myself.”

“Good.” I meet his eyes. “She doesn’t need to know the details. Just keep her safe.”

He nods. “Understood.”

I rise from my chair, the room going still.

“The next time someone so much as breathes wrong in my direction…”

I sweep a glance over the table.

“…I expect a name on my desk before the body goes cold.”

They all nod once. They know the drill but Rian answers for all of them.

“Clear, boss.”

Downstairs in my office, I pick up my espresso cup—the second of the morning—and it’s barely eight.

The flavor is bitter, sharp. I welcome it.

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