Clara gasped—a sharp intake of air through her nose—and her hand shot up, grabbing his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly tight for someone who looked like she was about to collapse. Her skin was freezing against his warm skin.
“Don’t,” she whispered, her eyes locking onto his. “I don’t need pity.”
“It isn’t pity, Clara,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rough and authentic. “Pity is for the weak. I don’t see weakness in you. I see a woman who survived a viper, and I see a viper that needs to be crushed.”
He gently dabbed the blood from her chin. She watched him, her breathing slowly evening out, her stance gradually losing its rigid, defensive edge.
Before either of them could speak again, the heavy oak door burst open.
May you like
Vincent didn’t wait for permission. He stepped into the room, his face dark, his hand already tucked inside his shoulder holster.
“Boss,” Vincent said, his voice flat with urgency. “We have a problem. Marco Vane just pulled up outside with six cars. He says Richard didn’t come home, and he knows he was last seen at Leles.”
The news hung in the air like heavy smoke. Marco Vane was not a man known for his diplomacy. He was a sledgehammer in a world that preferred scalpels, a brutal enforcer who operated under the assumption that fear cleared all obstacles.
Clara’s face went even paler than it already was. She let go of Lorenzo’s wrist and took a step back, her back hitting the solid oak of the door.
“He’ll kill you,” she breathed, her dark eye wide with sudden, genuine panic. “You don’t understand—Marco doesn’t care about rules. He doesn’t care about Leles. He thinks he owns this quarter.”
Lorenzo didn’t look at her. He turned back to his desk, calmly reached into the top drawer, and pulled out a sleek, matte-black Sig Sauer 9mm. He checked the magazine with a smooth, practiced click, then racked the slide. The metallic sound echoed crisp and final in the quiet room.
“Marco Vane owns what I allow him to own,” Lorenzo said flatly. He tucked the weapon into the waistband of his trousers behind his back and buttoned his suit jacket. “Vincent, how many men do we have on the floor?”
“Eight,” Vincent replied instantly. “All equipped. Four more in the alley cleaning up the mess.”
“Good,” Lorenzo said. He walked over to Clara, stopping inches away from her. He reached out and touched her uninjured shoulder, his grip firm, grounded, reassuring. “You stay in this room. Lock the door behind us. Do not open it for anyone unless you hear my voice.”
“Lorenzo—” she began, using his name for the first time. The sound of it sent a subtle electricity through his chest. “This is because of me. Let me go out there. I can tell Marco it was a misunderstanding—”
“You will do no such thing,” Lorenzo interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “No woman is dragged out of my house to face wolves. You stay here.”
He turned and gestured to Vincent. They stepped out into the hallway, and Lorenzo waited until he heard the soft, heavy turn of the brass deadbolt from inside the office.
Down below, the dining room had been completely evacuated.
The wealthy patrons had fled, leaving half-eaten steaks and spilled wine behind. The heavy double doors of Leles’ entrance were thrown open, admitting the cold night air and the harsh, bright glare of headlights from six black SUVs idling in the street.
Standing in the center of the pristine marble floor—right where Clara’s blood still stained the polished surface—was Marco Vane.
Marco was a broad, square-built man in his fifties, wearing an expensive leather coat that couldn’t hide his thick gut. His graying hair was slicked back, and his face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. Behind him stood eight heavily armed men in dark tactical jackets.
“Costa!” Marco’s voice boomed through the vaulted space, shattering the quiet elegance of the restaurant. “Where is my nephew?!”
Lorenzo descended the grand curved staircase slowly, one hand rested lightly on the brass railing, his boots clicking in a slow, rhythmic cadence against the marble steps. Vincent trailed a half-step behind him, his hand remaining hidden inside his jacket.
“Marco,” Lorenzo said calmly as he reached the bottom step. “You are making a mess of my foyer. And you didn’t make a reservation.”
“Don’t give me that aristocratic crap, Lorenzo!” Marco snarled, taking a step forward. His men shifted behind him, their hands drifting toward their belts. “Richard came in here tonight to settle a private matter with his girl. My scouts outside say your ape dragged him into the alley twenty minutes ago. Where is he?”
“He is currently lying in an alley two blocks away,” Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly serene. “He has two broken hands, a severe concussion, and if he has any sense left in his head, he is crawling toward a hospital.”
Marco’s eyes went wide with disbelief, then narrowed into slits of pure hatred. “You laid hands on a Vane? Over a fucking maid? A nobody?”
“She is not a nobody,” Lorenzo said softly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. “She was a guest under my roof. Your nephew raised his hand against a woman in my house. He bled on my floor. He broke my peace. In my city, Marco, that carries a tax.”
“Fuck your peace!” Marco roared, pulling a silver revolver from his coat and pointing it directly at Lorenzo’s chest. “You’re going to hand the girl over to me right now, or I burn this fucking restaurant to the ground with you inside it!”
