Page 54 of His Savage Ruin
Dante waits by the revolving doors, his posture relaxed enough to pass for a businessman waiting for a colleague. But I know where his gun rests at his waist, know he's already mapped every exit, every potential threat in this lobby.
Good. If this goes wrong, they'll get me out or die trying.
The Beretta pressed against my spine offers cold comfort as I cross the marble floor. The plan is solid—timed check-ins with Enzo, breach points already identified, Luca tracking every sightline from the building across the street. If this turns into blood, I won't die cornered.
But as the elevator begins its climb and the floor numbers tick past three, then four, then five, my carefully constructed focus starts to fracture in ways I didn't anticipate.Myjawachesfromclenching.I force myself to relax it, roll my shoulders back, and try to focus on what's coming—Emilio's angles, his leverage points, the lies I'll need to maintain about Alessia's pregnancy.
Instead, all I can see is her face this morning when she grabbed my arm and begged me not to make Romeo cut off his finger, the way her eyes went wide with horror and disbelief.
The elevator continues climbing to floor eight, then nine, and my mind won't let go of what happened after—her back pressed against the wall in the corridor, my fingers inside her while Romeo's blood was still wet on the marble just a few feet away, the sound she made when she came that was raw and broken and furious all at once.
I need to focus on Emilio, on the meeting ahead, on staying alive through whatever trap he's planning, but my body won't cooperate.Her scent still clings to my shirt collar. I breathe it in without meaning to, and my body responds despite the circumstances. The memory of her body beneath mine last nightsurfaces unbidden, the sound of her voice breaking when she whispered my name like it meant something.
Cristo.
Not now.
The elevator chimes—fifteenth floor.
I straighten my cuffs, force every thought of Alessia into a locked box in the back of my mind. She's the reason Emilio wants this meeting, the reason he thinks he has leverage. And she's the reason I came—because I need to know how much he really knows, how far he'll go to claim her.
The doors slide open.
Emilio waits by the window, whiskey already poured into crystal glasses. Gray streaks his hair now—age I'd hoped wouldn't touch him, years I wanted to steal. The distinguished elder statesman look, silver at the temples, expensive suit cut to hide the softness creeping into his frame.
But his eyes are the same. Cold and calculating.
My vision tunnels and every muscle in my body locks with the urge to cross this room and put a bullet between those eyes, to end it now without games or politics, just blood and justice and the satisfaction of watching the light leave his face after what he did to my father.
But that's not the plan, at least for now.
My hand drifts toward my spine where the Beretta waits, fingers itching for the grip, but I force them away and curl them into a fist at my side instead.
"Matteo." He smiles like we're old friends. "I'm pleased you agreed. For a moment, I thought you might lack the nerve."
The suite reeks of expensive whiskey and Emilio's cologne. Leather furniture. Crystal decanters. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing New York spread out below us like a kingdom waiting to be conquered.
Beautiful. And completely indefensible if this turns into a firefight.
I take the chair across from him without being invited. The leather creaks under my weight.
Emilio slides a glass of whiskey toward me. Amber liquid catching the afternoon light, expensive enough to taste like silk and smoke.
I don't touch it. Won't give him the satisfaction of accepting anything from his hands.
"You wanted words." My voice comes out level, controlled, even though my pulse hammers against my collar. "Speak them."
He studies me for a long moment, taking his time with his own drink. Making me wait. Power play I've seen a thousand times and used myself even more. The man who speaks first loses ground.
I let the silence stretch. I can wait all day if needed.
Finally, he sets his glass down with deliberate care. "You have something that belongs to me."
Belongs, like Alessia's a car he lent out and now wants returned.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. "Is that what you call her?Something?"
Emilio takes a slow sip of whiskey, savoring it. "She is my daughter-in-law and my late son's wife." He sets the glass down, rotates it once on the table. "And she carries my grandchild. That makes her our family’s possession."
