Chapter 3 Liam

They say legacy is blood.

But mine was built on bones.

Ivan was my father. A man who wore charm like armor and cruelty like a second skin. He wanted GreenLee Ricci—not for love, but for conquest. She was promised to Luca, but Ivan didn’t care. He hunted her like prey.

Lina helped him. She wanted Luca for herself. Thought if GreenLee disappeared, she’d have a chance. So she betrayed her own blood. Led Ivan straight to her.

But GreenLee didn’t break.

She ran. She fought. And Luca found her first.

He killed Ivan.

Boris never forgave that.

He blamed Lina. Said her betrayal got his brother killed. Said she was weak, selfish, poisoned by Ricci lust. So he slit her throat and raised me in the ashes of their sins.

He didn’t raise me to mourn.

He raised me to finish what Ivan started.

He taught me that Ricci blood was poison. That their daughters were born to seduce and destroy. That Katrina was the second chance.

She was Don Ricci’s heir. Untouched. Proud. Dangerous.

Boris wanted her dead. Said it would send a message.

But I wanted more.

I wanted her broken. Bent. Proof that Ricci pride could be shattered.

I played the part. Let her think she chose me.

And when she was mine, I caged her.

The door slammed harder than I meant it to.

Didn’t matter. She flinched. That’s what I wanted.

I stumbled into the kitchen, the bottle still half full. Whiskey. Cheap. Burned like hell. Boris said I should drink less. Said I needed a clear head to keep her in line.

But I liked the blur. Made her look softer. Easier to control.

She was on the floor, wiping up the mess from earlier. Sauce dried like blood. Plate shards glinting like teeth. She didn’t look up.

“Still cleaning?” I laughed. “Good girl.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept scrubbing like her silence was a shield.

I dropped my jacket on the counter. The left pocket sagged with the weight of the key. She wouldn’t dare touch it. Not after last time.

I walked past her, brushing her shoulder with mine. She didn’t flinch. That pissed me off.

“You think you’re better than this?” I muttered. “You think your name still means something?”

She paused. Just for a second.

I leaned in, close enough to smell the soap on her skin. “You’re mine, Kat. You were always going to be mine.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just nodded.

I liked that. Obedience. Quiet. Broken.

I poured another drink and collapsed onto the couch, boots still on, bottle resting on my chest.

She moved like a ghost behind me. I didn’t care.

She was broken.

She wouldn’t dare.

I woke to silence.

Not the kind I liked—the obedient hush of a house that feared me. This was different. Hollow. Off.

The bottle was gone. So was the jacket.

I sat up, head pounding, mouth dry. The room spun once, then settled. She wasn’t in the kitchen. Not scrubbing. Not crying.

“Katrina?” My voice cracked. I hated that.

No answer.

I stood, staggered toward the hallway. The cabinet was open. The lock dangled uselessly. Inside—empty. No phone. No burner. No control.

I turned, heart thudding. “Kat!”

She stepped into view, bat in hand.

Not trembling. Not crying.

Just watching.

“What the hell are you—”

She swung.

The first hit cracked across my ribs. I gasped, folded.

The second caught my shoulder. I dropped to my knees.

“You think you own me?” she said, voice low, steady. “You think I’d stay broken?”

I tried to stand. She didn’t let me.

The third swing was the one that changed everything.

I hit the floor. Hard. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

She leaned down, close enough for me to see the fire in her eyes.

“I’m not yours,” she whispered. “And I’m not waiting anymore.”

Then she was gone.

Door open. Night swallowing her whole.

And I lay there, bleeding into the silence.