Page 6 of One Savage Union

I hate that it stirs something in me I thought was long dead.

This should’ve been simple.

Kidnap. Marry. Control.

Deliver her like a pawn across the chessboard and bend Ricci to his knees.

But I’ve already broken the rules.

Every night, I find myself right here. Watching. Waiting.

Ruined by a girl who doesn’t even know she’s started a war.

Leo thinks she’s still in play.

He doesn’t realize I’ve already claimed her.

And soon I’ll be done watching.

Today, she’s seated at her precious piano in a black dress that has ridden up her delicious thighs. Her posture is elegant yet grounded, her fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys as if she were born to create music. The melody is inaudible through the feed, but I don’t need to hear it to know it’s spellbinding—her touch commands it.

Her long, wavy hair cascades over her shoulders, framing bronze cheekbones and a jawline that speaks of quiet strength. Her full lips press together in concentration, a hint of determination etched in their shape, while her wide, almond-shaped eyes burn with an intensity that hints at visions far beyond the room’s confines.

Music is her world, the domain where she reigns. In three days, she’s set to make her grand debut at the Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall, a performance already drawing the anticipation of critics and admirers worldwide.

Too bad, she’ll never make that performance.

Since I left my uncle’s office five days ago, I’ve done nothing but watch her and find out everything about her. I know her mother’s medical bills put her in deep debt, and she’s drowning. I know that she eats pizza and ice cream every night, only to wake up and run five miles every morning.

I also know that she doesn’t sleep.

She’s a naughty girl but disciplined.

I’ve memorized the cadence of her life. The tilt of her head when she’s deep in thought. The way her fingers hover over the piano before they strike, like she’s giving the keys a warning. Even the curve of her spine when she stretches between rehearsals—I know it all.

It’s surveillance. Strategy. Necessary.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

But it’s a lie.

Because when I watch her, it isn’t always for information. It’s not just about keeping her safe from Leo’s machinations or planning for our eventual confrontation. Sometimes, it’s just to see her.

To feel something. To imagine her beneath me, saying my name like it means something.

She’s sitting in a barely furnished apartment, and I’m sitting in an office at the top of the Hancock building, furnished in leather, glass, and steel.

Yet, her image rules me.

I’m obsessed.

Then I see the tears. They streak silently down her cheeks, catching in the light, and something in me comes alive. I want to kill the person who caused them, make them suffer for every drop that leaves her beautiful face. At the same time, I want to lick them away, taste her pain, and claim her grief as my own. I want to own every inch of Lucia, down to her tears.

Even more disturbing is the urge to comfort her. I don’t do comfort. It’s not in my nature. Yet here I am, imagining what it would be like to soothe her, to take her in my arms and make her forget whoever or whatever caused her sorrow.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Enzo’s voice breaks through my thoughts. Standing behind me, his usual smirk softening as he observes the screen.

I ignore the comment, but my jaw tightens. I’ve seen enough. With a flick of my wrist, I turn off the monitor. “She’ll do,” I say curtly, masking the unease in my chest.

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