Page 55 of His Savage Ruin
There it is, the real play—not about Alessia at all but about power and perception and the endless chess game we all play where appearing weak is more dangerous than actually being weak.I lean back in my chair, mirroring his casual posture even though my pulse hammers. "Your son was a piece of shit who beat his wife bloody. Some legacy to claim."
His fingers tighten on the glass—just for a heartbeat, barely visible. But I see it and know his façade is cracking.
"Lorenzo had his flaws." Emilio's voice stays smooth, but something cold flickers behind his eyes. "But he was my blood. And the child Alessia carries is my blood. That transcends whatever... complications... existed in their marriage."
Complications, like broken ribs and split lips were just minor inconveniences that didn't matter as long as the family name continued.
Adrenaline floods my system and my fingers start to drum against my thigh before I catch myself and force them still.
"And what is it you want, exactly?" I ask.
"To bring her home." He spreads his hands like he's offering me the world. "Where she'll be cared for. Protected. Where she belongs."
"Protected." The word scrapes out. "By the family that stood by while Lorenzo used her as a punching bag?"
"My son is dead, Matteo." His voice hardens, the smooth mask slipping just slightly. "Murdered. And now the woman carrying his child—mygrandchild—lives underyourroof. With the man responsible for making her my son’s widow." He leans forward. "How does that look to the families watching us?"
There it is. The real play. Not about Alessia at all—about power, perception, the endless chess game we all play.
"It looks," I say slowly, "like I'm protecting a pregnant widow from the family that failed her. It looks like mercy."
"It looks like you're keeping leverage." His smile sharpens. "And we both know mercy isn't in your nature, Romano. You're your father's son—ruthless, calculating. You don't take in strays out of kindness. So, let's dispense with the pretense."
He refills his glass, the crystal decanter heavy in his hand. "Eight figures, Matteo. Enough to let you expand into the East Coast overnight. Enough to double your territory, triple your income. That's a generous trade for one woman."
I shake my head slowly. "If it had been about your money, Emilio, I wouldn't have walked through that door. You know that."
His eyes narrow, measuring me. Recalculating. "Then why did you come?"
"To hear how far you're willing to crawl for her," I answer. "And laugh in your face when I refuse to give her back."
Emilio leans back, lifting his glass in something that might be a salute. "When she gives birth, that child deserves to grow up knowing where he came from. Knowing his grandfather."
"And if she doesn't want that?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"She will." His tone stays casual, but there's something in his eyes that makes my skin crawl. Certainty that feels rehearsed. "Women adapt. Especially when the welfare of their children is at stake."
I study him, filing away the slip. He's not as certain about the pregnancy as he pretends. These are words meant to test my reaction, to see what I know.
Before I can reply, my phone vibrates twice in my pocket. Enzo's signal. Position confirmed. My men are in place.
"I'll give you one chance to end this war peacefully," Emilio continues. He leans forward now, elbows on his knees, the picture of reasonable negotiation. "Bring Alessia to me, and I'll make you a richer man than your father ever dreamed. Refuse," his smile sharpens, "and you'll bleed resources until your empire rots beneath you. Income streams dried up one by one until you're begging me for scraps."
"You're assuming I need your permission to…"
I don’t finish my words because just then the window explodes.
Glass erupts inward and I'm already diving behind the couch before my brain catches up to what's happening. The first bullet tears through the space where my head was half a second ago. Automatic fire hammers the air—sound so loud it becomes pressure against my eardrums, against my chest.
Bullets chew through the upholstery and stuffing explodes around me like snow, wood splinters flying in every direction. One round passes so close to my skull I feel the heat of it, the air displacement sharp against my temple. My hand finds the Beretta at my spine. I flick the safety off and my breathing steadies despite the adrenaline trying to drown everything else. Training takes over. Count the shots. Identify positions. Return fire.
Through the chaos and gunsmoke already choking the air, I see Emilio crouched behind the mahogany table, and he's not panicking even if the motherfucker looks a little surprised by the timing.
The angles of the shots are too perfect. They're aimed at my position, tracking where I'd naturally take cover, leaving Emilio's side of the room untouched. The table he's behind sits in a dead zone—protected by the room's geometry, safe while bullets tear apart everything around me.
Neutral ground—what a fucking joke, I should have known better than to trust anything that comes out of Emilio Moretti's mouth.
"Now!" I snarl into the comm. I taste plaster dust and cordite, grit between my teeth.
