Page 163 of Untamed

Bambina:

At first, I blink, confused. Then something inside me ices over.

Iknowthose roses.

Clean. Sharp. White as snow and twice as dangerous.

It’s his signature.

Fucking Nicolai Moretti.

A low growl vibrates in my chest. I clench the phone so hard I hear the casing creak.

She thinks they’re from me.

The world seems to tilt, the sound of the man’s screams fading into nothingness as my mind races. White roses. Moretti’s calling card. A warning wrapped in elegance, a promise of chaos hidden in beauty. How did he find her? How close is he?

I glance around, scanning the street for any shadow that might move wrong, any car window that might gleam too long in the sunlight. My pulse thunders in my ears, every instinct screaming at me to act. To protect.

The wind carries the faint scent of gasoline and asphalt, mingling with the bitter tang of my cigarette. I inhale deeply, trying to steady my thoughts, but it only serves to sharpen the edge of my fury. Jordyn doesn’t know the danger she’s in, not yet. And that heart emoji feels like a punch in the gut, a message that cuts deeper than any blade.

I toss the cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath my heel as I shove the phone into my pocket. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching for the weight of steel, the cold and unyielding comfort of a weapon. This is not a coincidence. This is a move. Moretticlearly took my last message with a grain of salt and has made his play, and now it’smyturn.

I swipe out of the message and call Dante over without thinking. “I want every name tied to Moretti’s florist in Messina. Anyone who had access to the delivery schedule. Pull CCTV from the manor gate.”

“What happened?” Dante asks.

I pause. “Moretti just sent roses to my girl.”

The villa is too fucking quiet.

The lights are low, the fire’s burning, and the bottle of red I opened two hours ago still sits untouched on the table. Two glasses. Her glass is already half-poured. That was my mistake, expecting her.

I pace the length of the room again, pulse ticking like a loaded trigger behind my eyes.

I should be planning retaliation. I should be focusing on Moretti; on tracking down whoever delivered those white roses and making an example so brutal it echoes through every fucking family from Palermo to Rome.

But I’m not.

I’m here. Pacing like a madman in my own goddamn house because she said,“Maybe I’ll sneak out later,”and now it’s almost midnight and she’s still not here.

My phone sits on the table.

Mocking me.

When it finally lights up, I grab it in one breathless motion.

Bambina:

I’m sorry. I can’t come. Bianca put security on every entrance and exit. I think she knows I was lying. I tried, but I can’t get out, Ares.

I stare at the screen.

Not at the words. At the space between them.

The apology. The fear. The fact that shetried.

My teeth grind together. I set the phone down gently, but my hand trembles with restraint.

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