Page 89 of Untamed

Because I didn’t protect her. Ipunishedher.

I kissed her like she was something holy and then sent her away like she was nothing.

My throat tightens as I brace my hands on the edge of the bar, knuckles bloodied, my head bowed.

And for a moment, I just breathe.

Goddamn, she looked at me like I was more than the monster they made me, and I almost believed it. And then I did what I do, I made sure she’d never look at me that way again.

So, I close my eyes, jaw clenched, voice raw with something I’ll never say aloud to anyone else.

Only to her.

Only now, when she’s not here to hear it.

“Perdonami, bambina…”Forgive me, bambina.

It’s almost five in the morning. The villa is enveloped in silence, a weighty, almost tangible presence. Only the rhythmic tick of the old clock on the mantle and the occasional groan of the house as it settles break the quiet. Yet, all I can truly hear is the haunting echo of Jordyn’s voice, reverberating through my mind, mingling with the bitter memory of my own words. She’s gone, but her presence, her scent still clings to the air.

I would be lying if her final words to me, the adorable little threat she made, didn’t catch and hold my attention in a chokehold.“Mark my words, Ares Russo, I’m going to make you swallow every single one of those words and watch in satisfaction while you chokeon it.”

My elbows rest heavily on my knees, a cigarette burning between my fingers. The smoke spirals upwards, a thin, ghostly thread winding its way to the ceiling, resembling a silent prayer that I’ll never say. In my other hand, I clutch a small, soft, seemingly insignificant object, a hair tie. Jordyn’s hair tie. I found it in my bed. She must’ve dropped it that night she took that drug. The night I carried her limp body through this house like she weighed nothing and everything at the same time.

I never returned it to her. I don’t know why.

Maybe I needed to hold on to it as a reminder of how close she came to dying that night. My thumb traces the loop of faded fabric as if it were a relic of some holy significance. But it is not. It's just cotton, worn and frayed at the edges.

Yet, it still carries her scent, vanilla, something sweetly innocent, a fragrance that feels out of place in the chaos of a man like me.

It’s been hours since she stormed out of here, the sun is inching its way up the sky, painting the room with streaks of gold that seep across the floorboards like liquid warmth, a stark contrast to the cold inside me. The light feels mocking, bright and indifferent.

I flick the cigarette into the glass ashtray with a resigned finality, then retrieve my phone from my pocket. My thumb hesitates, lingering for a brief moment over Dante’s name before I press it.

The line rings once, twice.

“Boss?” comes the voice on the other end.

I fix my gaze on the hair tie cradled in my hand, then murmur softly but with unyielding resolve, “Brucialo.” A silence follows, but understanding passes without need for further words. Then, with my voice as hard as granite, I command, “Make sure he’s inside.”

“Understood,” Dante replies.

I end the call and remain seated, unmoving. The room is filled with the acrid scent of smoke and the weight of regret. Clutching the hair tie, I hold on to the last remnant of softness I will ever touch.

Thick cigar smoke coils heavy in my low-lit office at Oscura, each grey spiral rising toward the chandelier overhead as if it knows exactly where to linger. The glass prisms catch the haze, casting fractured light across the polished mahogany table where Enzo leans forward, one gold-cuffed wrist drumming out his words about freight routes through Palermo and tightening their stranglehold on the docks. I keep my hands folded at the edge of the table, fingertips pressing into the glossy wood, but my thoughts are pinned somewhere else.

Not on the brewing war with the Moretti’s. Not on these men, sleeves perfectly creased, eyes flicking with polite interest beneath heavy brows.

Onher.

I feel the smooth elastic hair tie sitting around my wrist like a lifeline. I remember the soft tremor in her voice that she fought so hard to hide the moment she walked away.

A stillness falls as the door to my office opens. A waiter slides in, silent as smoke, drops a couple of fresh glasses of scotch and retreats without a glance. Enzo keeps talking; Luciano lifts his tumbler of amber whiskey and watches me, expression as still and dark as onyx. Then, slam. The office door opening cracks the air itself.

The door bursts open, crashing against the wall with enough force to echo off the stone.

I go still, but my eyes slowly lift.

The room shifts. Every man stiffens, muscles coiled. All eyes snap to the doorway, to the five-foot-six blonde with blue eyes who somehow has the fucking nerve to storm intomyoffice without so much as a knock.

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