Page 8 of Forbidden

I crouch just enough to grab his hair, yanking his head up so his terrified eyes meet mine.

“Cross me again,” I hiss, voice a blade, “and I’ll carve her screams into your skull before I end you both.” I release him, letting his face smack the floor, and turn to Ralph. “We’re out.”

Back in the SUV, night presses thick against the glass. My gloves flex on the wheel, the signed documents a hot weight in my pocket. Victory is mine, but it’s bitter, like chewing gravel. This is me now, full of force and fear, a machine that takes because asking is for suckers. Sophia’s ghost flickers—her smile, her voice, and then, as always, it vanIshes, leaving a hole that has been rotting me out for three years.

I’m neck-deep in this game, have been since she died. Deals like Kessler’s, blood on my hands is all I know. Women, too, are just bodies to burn through. Last week, I had a brunette in a bar; her lips tasted of whiskey and regret. I fucked her in the bathroom, rough and without words. She clung to me afterward, begging for more, but I gave her a fake number and walked away. They’re all the same, to warm me for a night, and gone by morning. No connection. Just a release I barely feel.

“You good, boss?” Ralph cuts through the quiet.

I grunt, my eyes locked on the road. “Good enough. Kessler’s ours.”

He grins, slouching in his seat. “So funny when the guy pissed himself. Think he’ll squeal?”

“He won’t,” I reply, my voice hard. “Not unless he wants her head blown off next.”

Ralph laughs. “You’re a mean fucker.”

Being mean keeps me standing. It keeps the empire from crumbling. Sophia’s death broke me, leaving me ruthless, empty, a bastard who doesn’t stop. I breathe in the cold night air but feel nothing. His company is mine now, just like everything else I set my sights on.

I’ve yet to see something I want but don’t get.

I hold the wheel tighter and drive into the black.

Chapter 3

Penelope

I stand in the corner of Gianna’s wedding, clutching a lukewarm beer and watching the small crowd of friends and family mill around her backyard. The string lights swing between the trees and cast jagged shadows on the grass.

Laughter bounces off the wooden fence, and the smell of barbecue clings to everything. It’s simple, messy, real—not some fancy blowout. Just Gianna’s style. My short blue dress hugs my legs, the fabric creased from hours of hovering between folding chairs and sticky grass. I tug at the hem, wishing I’d gone for something breezier, but it’s cute enough to survive the night.

Then he walks in.

Adriano Vieri shoves through the gate, and the whole damn yard freezes. Heads snap his way and chatter dies fast, like he’s a black hole swallowing sound. He’s in a black suit, no tie, his top button popped and tattoos on his neck like dark vines. His strawberry-blond hair—gray streaks cutting through—drops over his forehead as he scopes the place out.

He strides in, his boots hitting the grass like he’s claiming it, all pure muscle and menace. My gut twists into a hard, sick lurch. I duck my head and then pretend to fuss with my beer label, but I can’t peel my eyes off him.

Gianna’s at my side in a heartbeat, her white dress rustling and veil jammed back like it’s pissing her off.

“Caught sight of tall, dark, and deadly yet?” she mutters, jabbing me with her elbow.

“Yeah,” I grunt, ripping the label now. “Guy’s a damn spotlight.”

She grins and takes a swig of her wine. “A saint when he’s not snapping bones for fun.”

I choke on my beer, coughing hard. “A saint? Didn’t you just say he tortures guys daily?”

“Give him a break, Pen.” She shrugs, eyes sharp. “He’s fucked up, sure, but he’s got a soft spot buried under all that psycho. Sophia’s death still guts him, same as us.”

Her name slices me open, fast, and brutal. I swallow, my throat closing up. Adriano’s here, and I’m a wreck of nerves buzzing like live wires and palms slick with sweat. I’ve been getting off to his pictures, panting his name in the dark like some twisted loser.

I gulp my beer, praying it’ll calm me down. It’s useless.

He’s coming our way now, clutching a small silver-wrapped box. Gianna straightens up, flashing a grin.

“Here’s my VIP, rolling in like royalty.”

“Congrats, kid,” he says, voice rough like gravel. He hands her the gift, then his gray eyes land on me. They widen, just a fraction. “Penelope?”

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