Page 33 of Untamed

“Amico, abbiamo del lavoro da fare.” I tell him, staring at the glass wall ahead. “I want everything you can find on Alessandro Romano.”

I end the call and drop the phone back onto the desk, the weight of it barely making a sound against the wood.

A couple of hours bleed by and my office is thick with smoke and low voices. I sit back, glass of whiskey untouched, listening to one of my men lay out the beginnings of our retaliation plan.

Maps. Names. Targets. Romano's territory mapped out like a fucking chessboard ready for me to kick over.

We speak in low Italian, sharp and fast, plotting strikes, weighing the fallout.

Messina will burn. Romano will fall. And anyone foolish enough to stand with him will be buried alongside his so-called empire.

I’m feeling calm and detached. Exactly how I need to be. Exactly who I am.

Until a knock sounds at the door.

One of my men pushes the door open, chest heaving, eyes wide. “Boss,” he pants. “We’ve got a situation.”

My eyes narrow as I wait for him to continue. The kid swallows thickly, shifting like he can barely bring himself to speak.

“It’s the Windslow girl,” he says. “Jordyn.”

My muscles lock tight as the air leaves my lungs.

“What about her?”

“She’s out cold,” he blurts, voice cracking under pressure. “Found passed out in the ladies’ bathroom. Looks bad, Boss. One of the barmaids thinks it’s an OD. She might have taken something.”

Silence punches through the room. For one long second, the only thing I hear is the slow, heavy thud of my own heartbeat.

Then everything snaps. “She’s alone, Boss. Matteo’s... we can’t find him.”

I shove back from the desk, the chair screeching against the floor.

All I see is Jordyn. Small, fragile, broken, possibly dying on a filthy bathroom floor while I sit up here plotting revenge on the wrong fucking enemy.

“Find Matteo,” I growl, my voice barely human. I will deal with that little prick later.

“They’re already looking, Boss.”

I’m moving before he finishes speaking, the door slamming back against the wall as I tear down the corridor.

The crowd downstairs blurs past me. Music, lights, bodies. None of it matters. All that matters is getting to her, all that matters is making sure she’s breathing.

And the whole time, there’s only one thought in my head—whoever did this is already dead.

The bathrooms are tucked to the back, past the main floor. A place where nobody looks too hard at what’s happening. Where bad things fester in the dark corners.

Exactly where she should never fucking be, especially alone.

I slam the door open so hard it ricochets off the wall. The sickly-sweet stench of cheap perfume, bleach, and vomit hits me like a wave.

Empty sinks, one lone cleaner glances up, wide-eyed, and immediately bolts out without a word.

Smart woman. She doesn’t want to be here for what’s about to happen.

I stalk past the row of sinks and head straight for the stalls. The door to the last one hangs slightly ajar. The barmaid points me to the stall she’s in. As I get closer, something pale catches my eye on the floor.

My chest caves in.

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