Page 162 of Untamed

Distractions. He means Jordyn, he always fucking means Jordyn.

I keep my expression unreadable, even though a storm is brewing inside me. “I’ll be there.” Luciano studies me like he’s waiting for something, an objection, a crack in the armour. I don’t give him one.

I stand slowly, the legs of the chair scraping back with a deliberate screech that cuts through the silence like a blade.

“I’ll handle the dock issue,” I say coolly. “And everything else…”

I reach for the file on his desk, not to read it, but just to flick through it with two fingers, letting the pages snap closed with asharp clap. “…will be dealt with.”

I turn to leave, my teeth clamped together tight. My thumb drags once over the band around my wrist, her hair tie, grounding me. Keeping me from doing something that would get blood on the carpet.

The door clicks shut behind me.

I don’t slam it. I don’t speak.

But the tension in my shoulders? The crack of my knuckles as I curl my fists walking down the corridor.

That says everything.

I’m keeping my mouth shut, for now.

That wedding will happen the day I start taking orders with a smile.

The smell of the sea used to calm me.

Now it just makes me itch to set something on fire.

The wind whips hard across the docks as I step onto the gravel, flanked by Dante and two of our enforcers. The warehouse ahead looms, half-shadowed under thick Sicilian sky, the kind of grey that presses on your skull. Inside, the dockworker who opened his fucking mouth is waiting, tied to a chair, shaking, bleeding already. Someone got eager.

“Status?” I ask without looking at Dante.

“He skimmed manifests. Asked too many questions about what was inside the crates headed for Messina. Port authority flagged a container this morning. He’s not talking.”

“He will.”

I step inside the warehouse. The man looks up, eyes wide, face pale under the blood. Recognition flashes. Then fear.

“Signor Russo, please, I didn’t know who?—

I lift my hand. Silence.

He shuts up fast.

I circle once, slow. Controlled. Like I’m bored.

“You made a mistake,” I say, tone even. “Not the kind we can fix with a demotion.”

His lips tremble. “I didn’t say anything, I swear?—

I draw my knife and hold it up to the light, examining the edge like I’m inspecting a menu.

“I believe you,” I say calmly. “But your silence wasn’t the problem. Your curiosity was.”

I don’t need to say more. Dante knows what to do.

I walk back out to the open air while the man starts screaming behind me.

I light a cigarette and take a long pull, filling my lungs with the acrid smoke. My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I pull it out as the wind cuts past my face.

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