Page 120 of Untamed

I nod once. “Make sure they pick up food. A litter box. Toys. All of it.”

Dante hesitates. Then tilts his head. “Since when do you give a shit about toys?”

I don’t answer. Because this isn’t about me. It’s abouther.If it wasn’t for her getting attached to the little rascal, I would have had him dropped off at an animal shelter by now.

I don’t have the bandwidth, the mood, or the patience for pet ownership. And if I did, it’d be a real dog—big, loyal, mean, not this twitchy puff of fur.

I watch Ladro curl up next to the bowl of milk and yawn, and my jaw tightens. Little fucker is cute, though.

“Just make sure he’s looked after,” I mutter. “He’s... important.”

Dante doesn’t ask. He’s a smart man. Just nods once and backs out of the room.

And I’m left alone with a tiny ball of fur staring up at me, an aching shoulder, and the echo of her kiss still lingering on my mouth.

As if I don’t have a million things I should be focusing on. Moretti. Strategy. Blood. But all I can think about is her.

Her voice. Her hands. That robe sliding off her shoulders like a promise I wasn’t allowed to keep.

I drag a hand through my hair and exhale slowly.

“She’s trouble, ladrito.”

The kitten blinks up at me, completely unfazed, then starts purring the second I reach out and brush my knuckles over his tiny head.

“Very dangerous for a man like me.”

But I already know, it’stoo late.Hell, it was too late that very night that she fell into my arms.

I’m in too deep. I can’t walk away from her. Not now...not ever.

My phone rings, and my thoughts scatter. When I pick it up, I see Luciano’s name on the screen. I press the green button and answer with a gruff, “Yeah?”

There’s no preamble.

“Colazione. Un’ora. Presentati.”Breakfast. One hour. Be there.

Click.

No room for argument. No explanation. Just expectation. In true Don Luciano style.

I stare at the screen for a beat after the call ends, then back at the kitten.

He licks his paw once. Like he doesn’t give a shit that the next hour might very well start a war.

I sigh, “Fanculo la mia vita.”

By the time I step out onto the terrace, the scent of espresso, scorched toast, and blooming rosemary fills the morning air. The table stretches long beneath the pergola, draped in white linen and flanked by meticulously arranged chairs. Sunlight dances across the crystal glasses and silver cutlery, like even nature is expected to show its respect.

It’s beautiful. Serene, but controlled. And I know better than to trust any of it.

Enzo’s already seated, stony-faced and silent beside Luciano, who sits at the head of the long table like a king surveying his court. I walk in, blood still damp beneath my bandage, shoulder screaming, but I don’t let it show as I take the chair to his right, his enforcer’s seat. The one that used to feel like power. Now it feels like a collar.

His eyes veer toward me once. Assessing and sharp.

“You’re late.”

I take a sip of coffee that tastes like ash and venom. “You’ll have to excuse my tardiness. I’m still bleeding from taking a bullet last night.”

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