Page 50 of Taming a Ruthless Heart

“Take care, brother,” I say, a slight smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.“Take good care of Angie and that kid.”

“Will do,” he replies, and the line goes silent.

Nick is gone.I stare at the phone, letting our conversation sink in for a long moment.My brother’s current situation and his blissful happiness are reminders of the life I chose, the sacrifices I made.There’s a flicker of something—maybe envy, buried deep beneath the layers of who I’ve had to become.Nick broke free, found something worth holding onto.What about me?I’m still here, bound by loyalty, by duty, by the damn legacy I can’t escape.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, the warmth from our conversation fading, leaving only the cold reality of the study around me.The files still lie open on my desk, waiting.After all, there’s no rest for the wicked, for men like me.

The soft jazz music playing in the study wraps around me once again as Nick’s voice fades from my mind.The phone call brought a momentary reprieve, a rare glimpse into a life where family meant something simple—where it meant laughter, love, and innocence.

I glance back at the scattered files on the desk, the harsh, inky letters spelling out the names of men who have betrayed my family.It’s more than just business, more than power or position.It’s a duty I inherited from my father, and Jack Boyle didn’t raise me to let men like Igor Vasilyevich poison what we built.

I run my fingers over the edge of a folder, feeling the crisp paper under my touch, a tangible reminder of my father’s meticulous hand.Jack was a force—calculated, composed, but above all, loyal.He held the Syndicate together with his honor, his unwavering belief in loyalty to family.He kept us grounded, kept the Syndicate’s darkness contained so that it wouldn’t bleed into every corner of our lives.And now it’s my job to protect what he left for me.

My father believed in the weight of history, in the roots that ran deep.But he never let them trap him.He knew when to wield his power and when to pull back, and that’s why he survived as long as he did.Jack Boyle was many things—a father, a leader, a goddamn patriarch—and I’m not letting a snake like Igor piss on any part of that legacy.

My gaze lands back on the laptop, on the names of Sergei and Oleg Vasilyevich, archived emails and encrypted messages painting them as allies-turned-traitors.They spat on that bond, used it as a shield for their own twisted ambitions.And now, their son is following in their footsteps, rebuilding what they started, taking on his father’s web of deception and multiplying it a hundredfold.Jack held the line back then.But my father also taught me not to have any patience for traitors, no tolerance for disloyalty.

I move the mouse and the pointer hovers over other files.Nikolai’s intel blinks back at me like a twisted mirror, aiming to reveal the dark corners where Igor has tried to hide.I click open a folder and scan the text.It’s an email from an associate of that mysterious man named Dracul to Igor.I frown when my mom’s name pops up.I check the date to learn it was sent five years ago.She was alive but already quite ill.The cancer had spread to her whole body.I find it odd that this stranger was discussing my mother’s work with Igor.

I scroll down until I find Igor’s reply.He wrote:

Leave that motherfucker Dave Boyle to me.

Focus on the shrink.You know what you must do to protect the Bratva.

I stare at the screen, slack-jawed.What the hell does all this mean?Mom was a freaking professor of Psychology at Harvard.How could her job threaten anyone, let alone the Bratva?Still, there aren’t many other explanations for what Igor wrote.

A surge of resolve hardens me, coiling with a fierce determination I haven’t felt in years.This isn’t just about keeping the Syndicate intact.This is personal.If Igor did something to my mother, I will tear down every piece of his empire.And if I have to go through hell to do that, so be it.

My thoughts drift to Alexia and Rose.I see their faces in my mind, clear as day, innocent and fragile, and that makes me feel vulnerable, which is dangerous for a man like me.I’d protect them with my life.Whatever it takes, I’ll make sure they’re safe.

I rise from the desk with renewed purpose thrumming through my veins.I make a silent vow to my father, to myself, to everyone I care about that I will get to the bottom of this shit.

“No more secrets,” I say through gritted teeth, the words barely more than a breath.

I’m going to burn Igor’s world to the ground, and I’m going to protect the Syndicate, protect my family, and I’ll make damn sure no one ever threatens what’s mine again.

20

Alexia

The library is a haven of quiet in my world of shadows and secrets.The polished wood shelves stretch up to the coffered ceiling, stacked with books whose spines are worn and faded, like they’ve been waiting decades for someone to pull them down and read their stories.Light filters through the tall windows, brushing the tops of the books.The scent of old leather lingers, wrapping around me as I pick a classic,Wuthering Heights.

Taking advantage of Rose’s nap time, I settle into one of the deep red leather armchairs, its cool, worn surface pressing against the lace of my black dress.The delicate fabric clings to my shoulders, hugging my frame as I sink back, letting the structured curves of the chair cradle me.I glance down at the novel in my lap.The heavy, old-fashioned pages contrast with the sleek, modern lines of my dress, a clash of worlds—like the clash in my own heart.

The room feels warm and comforting.For a few stolen moments, this is a place where I can pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

My gaze falls to the page as I sink deeper into the chair and lose myself in the plot.Catherine and Heathcliff’s love story fits my life to a T, with their complicated history, filled with dark secrets and half-truths.

As absorbing as Emily Brontë’s writing is, my mind keeps wandering to Dave.The man is as much a fortress as this house.He’s built his walls from years of blood, betrayal, and power.But lately, he’s been letting me see beyond these defenses.I’ve caught glimpses of his softer side, which I’d forgotten he was capable of.I see it when his gaze lingers for a second too long.It’s clear in the quiet moments when he looks at me like a man who’s struggling to trust again.

The way I feel about Dave is dangerous.He pulls me in and makes me think that maybe I could lay everything bare.Then, I remember what’s at stake.If he finds out Rose is his daughter, that I’ve been hiding it all these years, how will he react?

A soft knock pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up, expecting to see Fran with an offer of tea or a tray of her addictive lemon biscuits.Instead, it’s Henry, the butler, standing in the doorway, his face as impassive as ever.But there’s something in his eyes, a hint of warmth that softens the lines around his mouth.

“Miss Alexia,” he begins, and his voice carries a note of discretion that only someone in his profession could perfect.“There’s a visitor for you.”

“A visitor?”I blink, setting the book down on the table beside the chair.

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