Page 51 of Untamed

I crushed the cigarette under my boot and went back inside.

Didn’t sleep a fucking wink.

Because something changed that night.

And no matter how much I tell myself she’s off-limits...that Matteo can have his fun and I’ll stay out of it. I know one thing now with brutal, aching clarity.

I want her.

And the worst part? The part I’ll never admit.

It wasn’t the anger that almost broke me. It was the ache.

Because while Matteo was touching her like she was some fleeting thrill, I wanted toworshipher.

Enzo always complains that I never come to the family breakfast, and this is the reason why.

The table is too loud.

Laughter. Ridiculous stories. Forks scraping across plates. Matteo leaning back in his chair like he has no care in the world, sending flirtatious glances in Jordyn’s direction between bites of crostata. Jordyn, quiet beside me, chewing like the food might give her something to focus on other than how close our knees are under the table.

I haven’t touched my plate. My coffee has gone cold after the two sips I consumed.

Every second I sit there feels like a test of control. A fucking performance.

Bianca giggles at something Matteo says, something dumb, no doubt, and Enzo joins in like it was all so fucking charming.

Luciano offered a rare smirk, like the sight of his family laughing together was enough to wash over decades of blood.

It would’ve been sweet. If it wasn’t all a goddamn illusion.

I lean back slowly in my chair, let the moment stretch one second too long. Jordyn’s fork pauses mid-air. I can feel her tense beside me again.

Fucksake. I’ve had enough of this. So, I speak, cutting through the air like a blade.

“Not to break up this charming little family moment—” my voice is calm but flat. “—butwehave some pressing business matters that require our attention.”

The laughter dies. My father sets down his coffee without a word.

Enzo sighs, already reaching for his napkin. “Now?”

As I push my chair back and stand, I look at him. Cold. Steady. “Yes. Now. Every second we sit here, listening to Matteo’s pointless natter ourcompetitorsare making moves. But by all means fratello, finish your breakfast.”

Luciano pushes back his chair, his movements slower, more deliberate. “Enzo,” He says and gestures with his head. A silent command to get up and move. “Al mio ufficio.”

I give a curt nod and turn, not sparing a glance at anyone else at the table, especially not her.

I can feel her eyes on me and if I look at her now, I won’t walk out.

And I need to walk out. The less I see of her the better it will be for me.

After we walk into my father’s office. The door shut behind us with a softclick, muffling the sounds of breakfast, the clatter, the forced normality.

In here, there were no smiles. No distractions.

Just the weight of truth.

Luciano moves behind his desk, fingers already reaching for the silver humidor without asking if either of us wants one. He lights a cigar with the patience of a man whose watched empires riseand burn. My brother, Enzo, leans against the wall near the window, arms folded, tension radiating through every line of his body.

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