If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn she’d never seen me before in her life. But I caught it—that flash of guilt and worry when Romero pointed out to her that I was bleeding. She still cares, despite the bullet she put in me. The thought makes something dangerous stir in my veins.
Fuck mefor being proud of her for standing her ground. Against me, no less.
I pull a grey shirt from its hanger and shrug it on, my arm throbbing a little at the movement. But it’s easy to ignore. As I button up, I move to my selection of ties, my hand hovering as I consider my options.
The navy blue one with polka dots feels right today.Professional. Understated. The kind of thing that saysI’m a legitimate businessmanright before I destroy someone’s life.
Standing before the mirror again, I execute a perfect Windsor knot, ensuring it sits flawlessly against my throat. Then I slip on my suit jacket and head downstairs where Enzo’s waiting by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. He barely glances my way as I descend. “Have you sent it?” I ask him.
He doesn't need clarification. The judging look he gives me speaks volumes. “Yes, delivered about thirty minutes ago.” His tone carries his disapproval like a bitter aftertaste. He’s not thrilled about the flowers and the little surprise I sent Emilia.
He hasn’t exactly been subtle how he feels about that particular connection. He wants me tolet her go.
But he doesn’t understand the impossibility of that request.
Iwantto let her go, to stop her image from haunting every corner of my mind. But she’s been my obsession for almost two decades, an addiction hardwired into my DNA. No matter the state of our relationship—or lack thereof—I can never let her go.
Letting her go would be like severing my left arm because it’s currently injured and hurting me.Impossible.
What Icando is send little reminders like the package I sent this morning after discovering her address last night. Subtly showing her I’m not someone to fuck with, even if I can’t bring myself to outright hurt her.
“Good.” I walk past Enzo towards the foyer, and he follows. We come to a stop in front of the elevator. “Jason Moore?”
“Just left his house. Based on the coordinates Donovan gave me, he’s heading towards Inferno.”
We enter the elevator, descending quickly to the basement level, where I take a key fob out of my pants pocket and thumb it. Somewhere in the long line of cars, my BMW 8 Series chirps in response.
Behind me, Enzo whistles appreciatively. “Finally. I’ve been dying to give this baby another spin.”
I smirk as I make my way towards my car. “Tough luck, Enzo. I’m driving today.”
I slide into the driver’s seat, inhaling the rich scent of new leather that envelopes me. Enzo gets in next to me, muttering darkly under his breath as he yanks his seatbelt on.
Amusement ignites inside me. He’s sulking like a toddler who was just denied a cookie. I press the ignition button, and the car comes to life with a low rumble that vibrates up my spine, loosening the knots of tension I’ve been carrying since last night’s encounter.
Grinning, I peel out of the lot with a satisfying squeal of tires. “Yesss, baby,” Enzo exclaims, his earlier sullenness forgotten as he rubs his palms together in anticipation, matching my grin with one of his own. I respond by pressing my foot harder on the accelerator, feeding his enthusiasm.
We race through the smooth Manhattan streets, and I expertly maneuver past traffic, sticking to back roads to avoid the morning rush. The car is absolutely flawless, responding to my commands almost immediately without a hitch.
God, I’ve missed driving.
“We lost your guards,” Enzo chuckles, checking the rearview mirror as I pull into the reserved spot in front of my club.
“Good thing I can protect myself,” I answer as I reluctantly turn off the ignition, running my palm over the steering wheel in silent appreciation.
“Come on,” Enzo says, already reaching for his door. “I just received word that the councilor will arrive in a few sec—” He stops abruptly as a dark SUV pulls up right next to my BMW. Thanks to the blackout tints on my windows, we can see out without being seen.
A spry young man hops out of the driver’s seat and jogsaround the hood to open the back door. Jason Moore emerges, glancing furtively as if expecting paparazzi to swarm him.
What sort of club does he think this is?
He says something to his driver, then hurries into the club. The driver gets back into the SUV and pulls away, likely instructed to loop the block so the car wouldn’t be recognized by anyone passing by.
Smart of Jason. Too bad he wasn’t smart enough to take out his dashboard camera. And storing the footage on his laptop? The man is practically begging to be blackmailed.
“Let’s do this,” I murmur, opening my car door.
I’m stepping into the club’s entrance when the sound of another car pulling up draws my attention. My guards’ SUV has finally caught up. I shake my head at their incompetence and continue inside. I’ll deal with them later.
