Page 44 of The Counterfeit Lover

Yet why did he feel so restless? Why did his frustration mount when it was supposed to be the opposite? There was no thrill to be had—at anything. Even the blood staining his hands—the blood that in the past would have made his heart race—was now an irrelevant substance that brought neither joy nor satisfaction.

It simply made him…numb.

But that was the root of the issue.

He felt too fucking numb.

Ever since…

A scowl marred his features when he thought aboutthat. Until now he'd done his best to cast away all thoughts of his pet—she was never to be thought of again.

Easier said than done when she was the only thing seemingly bringing some type of color into his world—anytype of thrill.

Maybe he'd finally becometoojaded. He begrudgingly had to agree that he'd been through so much in the last decade that nothing could faze him anymore. Nothing could surprise him, nor entertain him.

He was a weary traveler at the middle of the journey. And that was unacceptable.

From the beginning, he'd known that his will was the only thing holding this together—holdingeverythingaround him together.

While his soul had died with his son, his body was still alive and thriving—to Michele's greatest dismay.

But because he had not been afforded death when he'd most wished for it, he'd resolved to see everything to the end—pay back every single person in his life who'd had a hand in his hellish existence.

Seeing the direction of his thoughts, he realized he was more adrift than he'd imagined. And that only made him want to reinforce his own boundaries, fortify his mind and will against all outside interferences.

He needed to focus on the only thing that mattered.

Revenge. Against Lastra. Against McBride. Against the entire fucking corrupt system that had failed his son.

The first was done. Though there had been a moment when his resolve had been tested, he'd prevailed in face of temptation and he'd pushed through, achieving what he'd set out to do—the ruination of the Lastra family.

As such, there were only two goals left pending.

And with a hidden sigh of relief, he confirmed to himself that his brother had never been his true target. From the beginning, he'd never been at the front of Michele's plans and hunger for revenge. Admittedly, Rafaelo's death would never assuage any such appetite. If anything, it could further interfere with his mindset—the last thing he needed when he was already teetering on the edge of hesitation, ready to fall into an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.

"I merely wanted to play with him a little. Poke and see if it hurts," Michele eventually added, imbuing some levity into his tone to compensate for the heavy weight of his thoughts.

"And?"

"It hurts," Michele stated in a deadpan voice.

"I just don't understand. You could have killed him. You could have let him die in the explosion but…"

"But I didn't," Michele filled the words in. "That's never been the goal, Andreas."

"Then why? Why go through so much trouble?" his friend frowned.

"Because," Michele cleared his voice, a twitch in his cheek. "The moment they realized Pancho was feeding me information they would have found out that I am still alive. By going after Noelle first, I didn't leave the ball in their court for the next movement."

Andreas nodded thoughtfully.

"And the other woman?"

"Lucero turned out to be the most pleasant surprise of all," his lips curled up. "I never anticipated the truth would be so perverted."

"Perverted?" Andreas blinked.

"You remember my brother was sold to a locale in Mexico after Armand died," Michele gazed down at Andreas.

---