Lucio's POV

The whiskey burned on its way down, but it did nothing to extinguish the fire raging inside me.

I stared at the scattered files on my desk, pages detailing every false lead, every dead end, every failed attempt to find the bastard who destroyed my life. Three years—three goddamn years—and still no sign of him. No trace.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until the skin threatened to break. The pain grounded me, but only for a moment. The rage always came back, a relentless tide threatening to drown me.

The dim lighting of my study painted the room in shades of amber and shadow. The dark wood of the desk, the leather chairs, the heavy curtains—it all felt suffocating tonight. This room, my so-called sanctuary, had become a prison of my own making.

I pushed back from the desk, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, and stalked to the mini bar. Grabbing the nearest bottle, I poured another drink, the amber liquid swirling in the glass like molten fire.

I didn't sip this time. I threw it back in one long, punishing gulp.

The front door creaked open and shut softly. Michen.

"Care to drink with me?" I called out, my voice rough from hours of shouting at my men, from the countless curses I'd muttered into the empty air.

Michen appeared in the doorway, calm and composed as always, his suit immaculate. He was a man who could walk through chaos and emerge without a hair out of place—a trait I both admired and resented.

"Why not?" he said with a smirk, settling onto the stool beside me. "It's always fun watching you self-destruct."

I poured him a glass and slid it across the bar.

"Any leads?" he asked, his tone shifting to something more serious.

I shook my head, my grip tightening around the glass until my knuckles turned white. "No trace. My men are useless. Every fucking lead turns into nothing."

"Lucio," Michen began cautiously, "maybe it's time to—"

"Don't," I snapped, cutting him off. My voice was sharp, a blade meant to sever any attempt at comfort. "Don't tell me to let it go."

He sighed, leaning back slightly, his expression unreadable. "I wasn't going to say that. But you're running yourself into the ground. If you keep this up—"

"I'll what? Burn out?" I barked a humorless laugh. "Good. Maybe then I won't feel anything."

Michen's eyes softened briefly, a rare display of concern. "She wouldn't want this for you."

My jaw tightened, the mention of her—my sister—sending a fresh wave of pain through me. "She's dead because of him. And I won't rest until he's dead too."

Silence hung between us, thick and heavy. Michen placed a hand on my shoulder—a rare gesture.

"I've got to head to the bar," he said finally. "Try not to break everything before morning, King."

I didn't respond. I watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. Alone again.

I poured another drink. Then another. The whiskey dulled the edges of my anger, but it didn't erase it. Nothing could.

The glass in my hand trembled. My vision blurred, whether from the alcohol or the memories, I couldn't tell. I needed to release this rage, this frustration, before it consumed me whole.

I hurled the glass against the wall, watching it shatter into a thousand glittering pieces. The sound echoed in the silent room, a brief moment of chaos in the oppressive stillness.

But it wasn't enough.

I drove my fist into the wall, the impact sending a shock of pain up my arm. Plaster cracked beneath my knuckles, but I didn't stop. Another punch. And another. Each one fueled by anger, grief, and the unbearable weight of failure.

Blood smeared across the wall, my knuckles split open, but I welcomed the pain. It was real. It was something I could control.

Finally, exhausted, I stumbled back to the couch and collapsed onto it. My shirt was untucked, the top buttons undone, revealing the tattoos inked across my chest—symbols of loyalty, loss, and vengeance.

I didn't know how long I lay there, the room spinning around me. The shattered glass on the floor glinted in the soft glow of the lamp, a reminder of my own destruction.

Kate's POV:

The sound of shattering glass jolted me awake.

I sat up in bed, my heart pounding as I strained to listen. The house was silent again, but the echo of something breaking still hung in the air.

Lucio's room.

My hand tightened around the edge of the blanket. I shouldn't go. He wasn't a man who welcomed intrusion, least of all from me. But something about the stillness afterward—the kind that felt too heavy—made my pulse quicken with worry.

I slipped out of bed, grabbed a robe, and made my way down the hallway. The dim lights cast long shadows on the polished hardwood floor, and each step seemed louder than it should have been.

When I reached his door, I hesitated.

You shouldn't be here, a voice in my head warned. But I ignored it. Something had happened, and I needed to know if he was okay—or if someone else wasn't.

I pushed the door open a fraction, just enough to see inside.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single bedside lamp, casting shadows over the dark, elegant furnishings. Leather, steel, and dark wood filled the space, a reflection of the man who owned it—cold, controlled, and dangerous.

Lucio was sitting on the edge of the couch, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loosely from his broad frame. His dark hair was tousled, and his knuckles were bloody, crimson smearing across his tattoos. Pieces of shattered glass littered the floor around him.

For a moment, I stood frozen, watching him. His expression was unreadable, a mask of icy calm that I knew hid a storm beneath.

I should turn around. Leave before he notices me. But my feet betrayed me, stepping quietly into the room.

"Lucio," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't look up. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, the muscles in his jaw tight.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was low, controlled—but laced with a warning.

"I heard the glass break," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I wanted to make sure—"

"That I'm what? Still breathing?" His gaze snapped up to meet mine, sharp and unforgiving. "I don't need a babysitter."

"I know," I replied quickly, the weight of his stare pressing down on me. "I just... I saw the blood."

His eyes flicked to his hand, as if noticing the injury for the first time. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

I took a cautious step forward, my eyes scanning the glass-strewn floor. His gaze followed my movement, calculating, assessing.

"Careful, Kate," he said, his voice cold. "You're out of place."

I paused, my heart thudding in my chest. "I can help. Let me clean it."

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Help?" He leaned back slightly, the tension in his body coiling like a predator ready to strike. "What makes you think I need your help?"

"You don't," I admitted, swallowing hard. "But you're hurt."

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he might throw me out. But instead, he stood abruptly, towering over me. The sharp scent of whiskey and something darker—something distinctly him—filled the space between us.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was softer now, but no less dangerous.

I took a step back, instinct telling me to retreat. But something in his eyes stopped me—a flicker of something beneath the cold exterior.

"Let me just bandage it," I said, my voice quieter now, almost pleading. "Then I'll leave."

Lucio's gaze bored into mine, as if searching for weakness, for an angle to exploit. After a long, tense moment, he exhaled sharply. "Fine."

I nodded, moving quickly to grab the kit. The room felt colder, the weight of his presence pressing down on me as I knelt beside him and gently took his hand.

His knuckles were raw and bleeding, the skin split from repeated impact. I cleaned the wounds carefully, aware of every brush of my fingers against his skin.

"You don't have to do this," he said, his voice low and detached. "I've dealt with worse."

"I know," I replied, focusing on the task. "But you don't have to do everything alone."

He didn't respond. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

When I finished, I wrapped his hand in a bandage and sat back, meeting his gaze. His eyes—piercing green and unyielding—were locked on mine, unreadable. Lucio's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with surprising force, his gaze unfocused but intense. "Stay," he slurred, his voice rough and hoarse. "Don't go."

 I couldn't leave him like this—not with the splinters of glass still scattered on the floor. After several failed attempts to lift him, I finally managed to get him onto his feet. He was heavier than he looked, all muscle and tension.

I hesitated, uncertainty clouding my thoughts, but something in his eyes—the vulnerability that never surfaced when he was sober—pulled me closer. With a sigh, I gently pried his fingers from my wrist, guiding him slowly to his feet. He wavered, leaning heavily against me.

With a grunt, I guided him to the bed, where he collapsed onto the mattress. His shoes and jacket came off next, leaving him in a white button-up shirt that clung to his broad chest.

My eyes traced the intricate tattoos, some written in Italian. One in particular caught my attention—a rose with delicate script woven around it. I reached out, almost unconsciously, my fingers brushing against the inked skin.

"Kate."

I froze, my hand hovering over his chest.

His eyes were open now, vivid green and piercing, locking onto mine. For a moment, neither of us moved. His gaze was intense, burning into me, making my heart race.

"I... I was just making sure you were okay," I stammered, pulling my hand back.

His hand shot out, wrapping gently around my wrist—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop me from leaving.

"Stay," he said softly, his voice a low command.

"I shouldn't," I whispered, trying to pull away.

"Don't question me, woman."

With that, he pulled me onto the bed beside him, draping the duvet over both of us. His arm slid around my waist, holding me close. The warmth of his body seeped into mine, and I felt that same strange comfort I had the night he helped me through a panic attack.

Why did it feel so safe in the arms of someone who should terrify me?

"You're stubborn," he mumbled, his breath warm against my neck.

"And you're impossible," I shot back, though my voice lacked the usual bite.

He chuckled softly, a rare sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

Minutes passed, and his breathing slowed, becoming steady and even. I should have left, but my body betrayed me, melting into the comfort of his embrace.

Why am I admiring him? I wondered. Why does my heart race when he's near?

"Because you like him," a voice in my head whispered.

"No," I argued with myself. "I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No."

"Yes."

I groaned inwardly. Shut up.

Morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. The warm, golden hues softened the dark, masculine space—rich mahogany furniture, a black leather armchair, and a bed that dominated the room with its imposing presence.

I stirred, the warmth of Lucio's body still wrapped around me, his arm draped possessively over my waist. His grip was firm, even in sleep, as if he refused to let go.

My cheek rested against the broad expanse of his chest, rising and falling steadily with each breath. The rhythmic thud of his heartbeat echoed in my ears, steady and grounding. His scent—a mixture of clean soap, expensive cologne, and the lingering trace of whiskey from the night before—filled my senses, intoxicating and strangely comforting.

I shouldn't be here.

Carefully, I tried to slip from his grasp, inching my body toward the edge of the bed. His arm tightened instinctively around me, pulling me back against the solid wall of his chest.

"Lucio," I whispered, my voice soft but urgent. I placed my hands against his chest, pushing lightly. "Wake up."

He let out a low, sleepy groan, his face burying itself in my hair. His breath was warm against my neck, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Mmm," he murmured, his voice husky and thick with sleep. "Go back to sleep."

I bit my lip, heart racing. "Lucio," I repeated, more firmly this time, pressing my palms harder against his chest.

Still no response.

His body remained relaxed, his grip unwavering. Desperation crept in. I couldn't stay here. When he fully woke up, he'd remember I wasn't supposed to be in his room.

Think, Kate. Think.

With no other options, I resorted to something drastic. Leaning up, I bit his bottom lip—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jolt him awake. "Ah! What the fuck?"

His eyes snapped open, blazing green and filled with fury. In an instant, I was pinned beneath him, his hands gripping my wrists like steel clamps. His face hovered inches from mine, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in a lethal glare.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous, a venomous growl that sent a jolt of fear through me.

"I-I heard the glass break last night," I stammered, my voice trembling. "I thought you were hurt, so I—"

"You thought you'd invade my fucking room?" he cut me off, his tone sharp, every word dripping with anger. His grip on my wrists tightened, making me wince.

His eyes burned into mine, searing and unrelenting. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding. "I just wanted to help," I whispered, lowering my gaze in shame.

"Help?" He barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. "You think I need your help? You think I can't handle myself?"

I shook my head quickly. "No, I just—"

"You just what?" he snapped, cutting me off again. "You thought you could walk in here, like you belong? You don't. You're nothing here, Kate. Nothing but a fucking nuisance."

His words cut deep, each one like a blade slicing through my chest. I tried to pull my wrists free, but his grip was unyielding.

"I'm sorry," I said softly, the words barely audible.

His jaw tightened, the softness vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "Why didn't you leave?" he demanded, his voice low but filled with fury.

"You asked me to stay," I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze.

His eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering in their depths. "Bullshit."

"I'm not lying," I said, my voice trembling but insistent. "You told me not to leave. And... you wouldn't let go."

His expression hardened, his eyes cold and calculating as he searched my face for any hint of deception.

"You're fucking lying," he hissed, but there was a crack in his voice, a sliver of doubt that he couldn't hide.

"I'm not," I said again, more firmly this time.

His hands released my wrists abruptly, and I gasped as blood rushed back into them, the skin tingling. He sat back slightly, the tension in his body palpable.

For a moment, he just stared at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then, his lips curled into a sneer.

"Get out," he said coldly, the words like ice.

I scrambled off the bed, my legs shaky beneath me. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from my chest. I took a step toward the door, but his voice stopped me."Kate."

I froze, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

"Don't ever come into my room again," he said, his tone a warning, low and lethal. "If you do... I won't be so fucking forgiving next time."

I nodded quickly, my throat too tight to speak, and slipped out of the room.