Page 57 of His Savage Ruin
Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer—NYPD responding to reports of shots fired, probably multiple units converging on this location along with fire and EMS. The sound makes my pulse kick higher because the last thing we need is to be here when they arrive and start asking questions about who was shooting at whom.
A woman in a hotel uniform—manager, maybe—is shouting into a phone near the concierge desk, her face pale and her hands shaking as she tries to coordinate evacuation procedures she's probably never had to use before. Glass from the ground floor windows has shattered outward, and I realize one of the shooters must have fired from this level too, creating crossfire that could have trapped us completely if my men hadn't been positioned exactly where I put them.
Dante appears at my elbow, his expensive suit jacket torn at the shoulder, his face grim. "Cars are ready. Back exit, now."
Behind us, I hear the first police units arriving—the distinctive whoop of NYPD sirens cutting off as cruisers screech to a stop outside the main entrance, and I know they'll be swarming the building within minutes, locking down exits and interviewing witnesses.
But we're already gone, disappearing into the service corridors that Luca mapped for exactly this scenario, moving toward the black SUVs waiting in the alley behind the hotel where no cameras can see us leave.
As the city blurs past the tinted windows, rage burns cold in my chest. Neutral ground—the bastard invited me to a peace meeting and turned it into an execution attempt, and if I had any doubts before about whether Emilio Moretti could be trusted, those doubts are gone now.
Emilio Moretti hasn't changed since the night he murdered my father—still the same treacherous snake who breaks his word the moment it serves his purpose.
But he made one critical mistake tonight.
He let me live.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Alessia
The estate doors slam open, and the sound echoes through the marble foyer like a gunshot. I'm halfway across the room before I know it, instinctively drawn to the commotion. Isabella rises from the sofa beside me, one hand flying to her mouth.
Matteo stands in the doorway, flanked by Enzo and Rafael, and something is wrong.Very wrong.His jacket hangs open, shirt dark with blood. The metallic scent hits me half a second later, mixed with gunpowder and smoke, clinging to him like a second skin and I feel a wave of nausea come over me.
His sleeve is soaked through. Red spreading down his forearm, dripping onto white marble.
My throat closes and I feel my worry overpowering my anger that he went to Emilio. And yet, he went without telling me, andnow he's bleeding in his own foyer, and the fury surges through my chest again and burns along with the fear I didn’t expect.
He walks like he's not wounded at all, like the blood staining his clothes is someone else's problem. But I see the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing comes too controlled, too measured and I’m sure he’s in more pain than he’ll ever show.
Our eyes meet across the foyer. His unreadable, locked on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse hammer. I can see the second he realizes that I know what’s happened.
I move before I can think better of it. My heels click sharp against marble as I close the distance between us, silk blouse clinging to my skin in the humid air. Behind me, I hear Isabella's sharp intake of breath, but I don't stop.
"You went to him." The words tear out of me, low and shaking with rage I can't contain. "You went to Emilio and didn't tell me."
His expression doesn't change. He shrugs out of his jacket—winces, just barely, as the fabric pulls at his wounded arm—and his voice comes out flat. Sharp. "Not your concern."
Not my concern. Something in me snaps.
My palm connects with his chest before I realize I've moved. The impact jars up my arm, and he doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. Just stares down at me with that infuriating calm while my hand throbs where I struck him.
"Not my concern?" My voice cracks, raw and ragged. "My life is the pawn on his table. My fate is what you were negotiating—and you think I don't deserve to know? What if you were killed, Matteo?"
I raise my hand to hit him again—I need to make him feel something, need him to stop looking at me like I'm a problem to be managed—but his hands shoot out faster than I can track. He catches my wrists, grip iron-hard, and suddenly I'm being dragged.
He hauls me through the corridor toward the room, his hand bruising on my wrist. When we reach the door, he spins me around and slams me against the carved oak. The impact knocks the air from my lungs.
His body cages me against the door, heat rolling off him in waves. Blood and smoke and antiseptic—I can smell it all, taste the violence that clings to him like a second skin.
"Careful,principessa." His voice drops low, dangerous, vibrating through my bones. "Push me again, and I'll remind you exactly who owns what."
My chest heaves against his, each breath dragging in his scent. I should be terrified. I am terrified, even if it is for his life mostly. But my pulse also hammers in my throat for reasons that have nothing to do with fear, and I hate myself for it.
"What were you planning?" The words tear out of me, sharp and accusing. "Selling me back to him?"
"Never." His grip on my wrists tightens until I feel his pulse against mine, rapid and hard. "I never intended to give you back. Not to him. Not to anyone." His mouth drops to my ear, breath scalding against my skin. "Especially not now that the lie about the pregnancy is unraveling."
