Olivia POV I barely got two steps away from Jude’s room before Marco fell into step beside me. Silent. Heavy-footed. Too composed. I didn’t like it. He kept glancing at me like he was waiting for something to crack. Maybe my voice. Maybe my restraint. Hell, maybe my whole damn sanity. “What?” I snapped, refusing to look at him. He didn’t flinch. “You didn’t ask how I knew he was in the hospital.” I stopped cold. My spine stiffened like it’d been iced over. Slowly, I turned to face him. “You’re right,” I said evenly. “I didn’t.” He smiled—thin, humorless. “I’m just saying. Most people would’ve questioned how I got there before you did.” “You’re not most people,” I said tightly. “True.” He leaned against the whitewashed hospital wall like he had all the time in the world. Like he owned it. Like he hadn’t just dropped a loaded gun between us and dared me to touch it. “How did you know?” I asked, each word sharp and deliberate. His smile didn’t falter. “Luciano likes to keep
Olivia pov His chest rose and fell beneath my hand, slow and calm like none of this had happened. Like he hadn’t just torn me apart and stitched me together in the same breath. We lay in silence. Clothes scattered across the carpet, the faint smell of whiskey and sex mingling in the wreckage of the library. A broken man, a furious woman, and too much unsaid choking the air between us. I stared at the ceiling. Hated how warm his skin felt. Hated how my body still clung to the ghost of his touch. Then—his phone rang. Shrill. Clinical. A sharp crack in the fragile calm. He didn’t move for a second. Then, like nothing had happened, Luciano reached for it. Calm. Emotionless. “Luciano,” he said, voice gravel. His arm slid away from my waist, like I was just another thing to be discarded once use was over. Just like that. I sat up slowly, jaw clenched. My shirt was ripped. His belt lay somewhere near the broken chair. My dignity? That was nowhere to be found. “No,” he said to whoe
Olivia pov They dragged me through the hallway like I was some damn criminal. Marco didn’t touch me, but two of Luciano’s men flanked me like I was going to sprint or bite someone. Not that it was a bad idea. My lip still trembled with the weight of everything I’d said. Jude. That slap. The way Luciano’s face went cold like he was seconds away from snapping my neck—or worse, snapping his own self-control. And now? Now he wanted me brought to him. The double doors to the library swung open, and I was pushed inside like a ragdoll. He was standing there, back turned, facing the window. Shadows from the broken lamp cut across the room like a crime scene. Glass littered the floor. Books torn and bleeding. A chair lay on its side like it tried to escape but never made it. I stood still. I wasn’t about to play scared. “You sent for me?” I asked, voice sharp. He didn’t turn. “You never shut up, do you?” I crossed my arms. “You never stop destroying things, do you?” He finally tur
Luciano – POV I stormed into the library like the walls themselves owed me something. The door slammed behind me, the echo ricocheting off the shelves like a warning. I didn’t stop walking until I reached the bar cart, snatched the decanter of whiskey with one hand and poured straight into the glass with the other. Too slow. I cursed, tossed the glass across the room, and drank straight from the bottle. One swallow. Two. Three. Fire poured down my throat, but it did nothing to drown the heat already roaring through me. She slapped me. She slapped me. And I let her. I was still standing there like a goddamn statue, her words rattling around in my skull like nails in a tin can, when Marco finally walked in—because of course he did. If there was anyone stupid enough to interrupt a storm mid-spin, it was Marco. “Boss,” he said carefully, stepping just inside the threshold. “You want me to have someone bring ice for that bruise—” “Get out.” He stayed. Fucking idiot. “You’re a
Olivia – POV "You hit my brother," I breathed, my voice cracking with disbelief, grief clinging to every syllable. The taste of blood still lingered on Jude’s lips. I had dropped to my knees the moment I saw him dragged in—his face bruised, one eye swollen nearly shut, arms trembling as if the air itself weighed too much. When the guards released him onto the marble floor like he was some trash to be discarded, I flew to him. My arms had barely locked around his battered frame before Luciano’s voice sliced through the silence. "You don't have a say, Olivia. You're my property." That was it. Something in me snapped—loud and ugly. I rose to my feet slowly, the sob I’d been choking back morphing into something fiercer. Hot. Furious. It clawed up my throat like fire. "You hit my brother!" I screamed, spinning toward him. My chest heaved, fists clenched at my sides. "After everything I've done for you? After I stayed when I wanted to run? After I gave up my f*cking name, my life—"
Luciano POV I’ve never understood the appeal of honor. It's loud. Messy. Bleeds all over my floor. And yet, there he was again—Jude, all busted ribs and busted pride, dragging his broken body through the night like he still had something to prove. Fool. But I’ll give him one thing: he doesn’t die easily. I watched him from the backseat of the black Escalade, parked just far enough from the club’s stench to breathe. His hoodie was torn. His knuckles raw. The photo of his sister crumpled in his hand like a talisman. How poetic. I flicked ash from my cigar, leaned forward, and murmured, “Now.” The doors burst open. Two of my boys moved fast—Marcus and Nero. Good shoulders. Empty souls. They grabbed him like he weighed nothing, dragging his bleeding carcass into the SUV. He fought, of course. Arms swinging. A chain still wrapped around his fist like he was ready to kill God himself. Brave. Stupid. I liked that. The door slammed shut. The car sped off. Jude’s head lolled aga