Page 133 of Untamed

And then, barely louder than the sound of her breathing, she whispers, “You killed them?”

The way she says it isn’t filled with horror. It’s disbelief. Like a part of her always knew this man standing in front of her was capable of it, but never thought I’d do it forthem.

I don’t deny it. What’s the point? I let her stare at me and find the truth in the silence I offer her, because it’s all I have left. Her lips part again, but this time her voice is stronger. Shaking, but steady enough to land its blow.

“Tell me their names.” I blink as she steps closer. “The ones who did it. Who pulled the trigger? Who ordered it? I want their fucking names, Ares.”

I swallow hard, throat burning, the names sitting like lead on my tongue. She deserves to know, and yet... saying them aloud feels like letting them live again. Still, I speak. Slowly and carefully.

“Alessandro Romano’s the one who put out the hit.” My voice is flat, devoid of the heat bubbling just beneath the surface. “There’s been a longstanding feud between our families, Russos and Romanos. Power, territory, blood. It always comes down to who controls what.” I pause. “Aldo Romano, Alessandro’s older brother, thought he had the balls to force his way into Russo territory, so I broke his back and put him in a wheelchair for life.”

Jordyn flinches, but I keep going. She asked for the truth. I’m not sparing her from it.

“Romano wanted payback. But he didn’t come at me. They rarely ever do. He went for Matteo, knowing he was the softer target. The more visible one. Put out the hit thinking it’d be clean.” My eyes lock with hers, hard. “But Matteo’s been trained for such things. He saw it coming. Swerved at the last second.” I exhale through my nose, every breath laced with bitterness. “They missed him, and...” And the cost of that miss was her entire world. I pause for a breath. “The other was Sergio Bianchi, the man who was hired to do the job. The one behind the wheel.”

Her face twists, but she doesn’t stop. Her voice cuts again, this time laced with something close to rage. “And how did you do it?”

That stops me.

She’s shaking now, but it’s not fear. It’s fury. The kind that spawns from too many sleepless nights, from too many pieces that never fit until now. She wants to know how I killed them. Wants tofeelit, like maybe that will make the ache ease, just a little.

So, I tell her.

“Sergio didn’t get a quick death,”I say, each word like ash. “I sliced his throat and watched him bleed out, made sure he felt every second. Then I hung him by the heel like a fucking dog on Romano’s doorstep. So they can all see what happens when they cross me.”

I expect her to cry, but she doesn’t. She just stares at me like she’s seeing a ghost wearing the face of a man she once trusted.

“Alessandro Romano,” she whispers, like saying the name out loud makes it more real. “I saw him on the news. He was… he was hung in the middle of the city centre. By his intestines…”

I don’t speak. There’s nothing I can say that won’t make it worse. So, I only nod once.

“You did that.”

Another nod. Slower this time.

Her hand flies to her mouth, her fingers trembling against her lips as she shakes her head like she’s trying to scrub the image from her mind. Like maybe if she denies it hard enough, she can undo what she’s just heard. But I see the truth sinking in behind her eyes.

She knows exactly what kind of man stands in front of her now.

And I expect her to run. To turn and bolt, like every rational instinct in her body should be screaming at her to do right now.

But she doesn’t.

She stays.

Frozen.

Staring at me like she’s trying to reconcile the man who touched her like she was made of glass with the one who gutted a man in a city square and left him for the world to see.

Panic coils low in my gut, a tight, simmering dread that thickens the longer she says nothing. Because her silence is worse than her anger. Worse than if she screamed, or cursed, or clawed at me with shaking hands.

At least then I’d know where we stand. But right now, all I have is the echo of what I did, and her eyes on mine like she’s still deciding whether to break or believe.

And fuck, I don’t know which would destroy me more.

I don’t breathe. The air feels heavy, solid, as if it has sealed my lungs shut. I can’t. Because if I do, I might crumble completely, like fragile glass under a hammer’s strike.

The image is already burned into my mind. Romano’s lifeless body, hanging like a ghastly marionette in the middle of Messina, viscera dripping onto the ancient cobblestones while cameras flashed like lightning, and reporters speculated with eager whispers. I remember seeing the news and thinking whoever did it must’ve been twisted, a creature born from the darkness of nightmares.

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