Page 70 of His Savage Ruin
Rafael snorts from somewhere to my left. "That's specific."
"The note in her room. The hit at the Meridian. All the little shit that keeps happening—it's connected. Has to be." I drag a hand through my hair, feeling the tension knotted at the base of my skull. "Someone's been running plays on us for weeks and we've been too busy putting out fires to see the pattern."
"What pattern?" Enzo asks, his voice level and measured like always.
"They're all about her. Every single move." I straighten up, feeling my shoulders pull tight. "Emilio thinks she's pregnant with his grandson. Half of Chicago is waiting to see if I'll trade her back. Our own people don't even know if she's a prisoner or what the fuck she is. And someone's taking advantage of that confusion to mess with us."
Rafael leans back in his chair, and I hear the creak of wood under his weight. "So we make it clear she's off the table. Send word to Emilio that negotiations are done, tell the other families to back off."
"That doesn't solve the problem," I say, and I can hear the frustration bleeding into my voice even though I'm trying to keep it together. "As long as her status is unclear, she's still a target. Still something people think they can use against us."
"Then clarify her status," Dante says, and I hear the scrape of metal on wood—his knife hitting the table. "Make it crystal fucking clear what she is so nobody can twist it."
The words sit heavy in my chest because that's exactly what I've been circling for days now, trying to find another solution that doesn't involve admitting what I already know. My throat tightens. I've been thinking about this constantly—at the casino when she won hand after hand and I watched my men start looking at her differently, like she was more than just leverage. At the Meridian when Emilio sat across from me offering money for her like she was merchandise he could buy back, and all I could think about was how I'd kill him before I'd let him touch her.
Every time I wake up with her in my arms and realize I don't want to let go.
The thought scares me more than facing Emilio's ambush did, more than finding a traitor in my ranks, because wanting her this much makes me vulnerable in ways I've spent seventeen years learning to avoid. My father taught me that attachment is weakness. That caring about someone gives your enemies a weapon they'll use without hesitation.
But standing in that hotel suite with Emilio talking about her like breeding stock, I realized something had already shifted. The decision wasn't whether to care about her—that ship had sailed. The decision was what to do about it.
"You've already decided something," Enzo’s voice snaps out of my thoughts. His voice is measured, like he's already guessed where this is going but wants me to say it myself. "I can see it on your face."
I drag in a breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs the way it should. The air tastes like smoke and old leather and my own adrenaline, making my pulse hammer too fast. My palms are damp against the table, and I have to force myself not to wipe them on my pants like a nervous kid.
Luca pushes off the wall, and the leather of his jacket creaks as he moves closer to the table. "Well? What is she, brother?"
Part of me wants to deflect, give some bullshit answer about strategy and leverage, but that's not what Luca's asking and we both know it.
Mine.
The word surfaces in my head unbidden, and I try to push it down because it sounds possessive and irrational and exactly like something a man who's losing control would think. But it won't go away. It's been sitting there since the casino, and earlier, definitely since the moment at the Meridian when Emilio talked about her like she was nothing more than an incubator for his family line.
I remember standing in that hotel suite thinking if he touches her, if he gets his hands on her, I'll burn Chicago to the ground.Not because she's valuable as leverage. Because she's mine and he doesn't get to take what's mine.
That realization should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like something clicking into place, like a puzzle piece I'd been trying to force into the wrong spot finally sliding home.
"I'm going to marry her," I say, and the words come out rougher than I intended, like my throat doesn't want to release them.
The silence that follows is absolute. Even Rafael's cigarette has stopped halfway to his mouth.
Then the room erupts.
"Cristo," Rafael mutters, setting his cigarette in the ashtray with deliberate care. "Did not see that coming."
Enzo's expression doesn't change, but his fingers unlace slowly, spread flat on the table.
Dante pulls his knife free with a soft scrape of metal on wood, turning it over in his hands. "Bold. Emilio won't like it."
"I don't give a fuck what Emilio likes."
But Luca doesn't move. He just stares at me from across the room, jaw working like he's chewing words before he spits them out. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.
"Convenient." He pushes off the wall in one smooth motion. "She comes here a prisoner. Weeks later she's in your bed. Now she's walking down an aisle. You call it strategy, but we both know it's not."
Rafael whistles low, and I hear him flicking ash into his glass. "Here we go."
I keep my palms flat on the table even though every muscle in my body wants to move. "And what do you think it is, brother?"
