Lorenzo's POV

My phone buzzed several times in my pocket.

But I had no time for it.

I was using the mud-caked tip of my shoe to roughly lift the chin of some Irish punk.

"Tell your boss what happens when you sell shit on Vittori territory!"

He tilted his face up and spat at me.

I backhanded him across the jaw.

A tooth flew from his mouth, mixing with the rainwater on the ground before disappearing into the Brooklyn alley's storm drain.

I pulled up my father's video call.

"Dad, the Brooklyn situation's handled."

I angled my phone toward the piece of trash on the ground.

Three seconds of silence from the other end.

"Who gave you permission?"

I wiped the blood spatter off my knuckles with my thumb.

"They were running underage girls in Brooklyn. That breaks the rules. You taught me that when someone breaks the rules, they—"

"You think you're a Made Man?!"

My father's sudden roar sent a piercing screech of feedback through the speaker.

I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek and said nothing.

"You haven't been formally inducted yet. You don't get to make these calls!"

He spoke through clenched teeth, as if he wanted to reach through the screen and snap my neck.

"The Irish will take this as provocation. They will retaliate!"

"Maybe at your favorite restaurant. Maybe in your bedroom while you sleep!"

"I—"

"Shut the fuck up! Get your ass back here. Now!"

I stood in the rain, staring at the darkened screen.

Something churned in my gut.

Not fear—something nauseating that made me want to vomit.

It was always like this.

Go too hard, I'm wrong.

Don't go hard enough, still wrong.

In his eyes, no matter what I did, I'd never measure up to that goddamn Tore.

Sure, Tore took a bullet for him at nineteen.

As the son of Underboss Francesco Bianchi, Tore embodied everything my father wanted in an heir.

But if I'd been there that day... I would've taken that bullet too.

I yanked the car door open and slid into the back seat. The driver immediately cranked the heat to maximum.

The warmth from the leather seat seeped through my soaked pants, making my skin crawl with discomfort.

"Take me to the hillside estate."

The car rolled onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Manhattan's neon lights blurred into smears through the rain-fogged windows.

I pressed my forehead hard against the cold glass.

My seventh birthday flashed through my mind without warning.

My mother standing before the cake, candlelight casting warm shadows across her face.

"Lorenzo, I swear I'll never leave you."

Bullshit.

Days later, she'd taken everything of value and left nothing but a note on her vanity: I'm sorry.

Forever?

What a cheap fucking word.

Back at the Vittori estate, I ignored the butler in the living room and headed straight down to the basement gym.

I peeled off my damp clothes and threw them on the floor, then wrapped my hands and pulled on the gloves before slamming into the heavy bag.

Within minutes, my knuckles started going numb and sore.

Sweat ran down my temples into my eyes, stinging so badly I could barely keep them open.

"Fucker."

I clenched my jaw and drove a heavy cross into the side of the bag.

The entire thing swung violently sideways, the chain screeching against its mount.

"You think you can control me?"

Half an hour later, I stopped, gasping for air, forehead pressed against the soaked leather. I tore off the gloves and let them hit the floor.

Light footsteps approached from behind.

Elizabeth walked over carrying a glass of ice water and a clean white towel.

I stared at the loose linen loungewear she wore, my brow furrowing involuntarily.

That damn linen completely concealed her beautiful breasts.

It was common knowledge that women's breasts enlarged during lactation, yet hers showed no sign of it.

She'd even stopped wearing those black silk camisoles—afraid the old man would scold her for being improper?

The old bastard was so goddamn old-fashioned.

"Another fight with your father?"

I took the towel from her and roughly wiped my face.

"He fought. I didn't."

"Are you hungry? I could make you a bowl of meat sauce pasta."

She stepped back half a pace, considerately giving me space.

"Or we could go out? There's a new Italian place nearby. The chef's from Naples—the white truffle risotto and beef Wellington are both excellent."

I touched my hollow stomach. "Fine. Let's go out."

An hour later, we sat across from each other in a private dining room at the upscale restaurant.

Elizabeth held her sterling silver knife and fork, elegantly cutting the pan-seared veal on her plate without making a sound.

The aroma of truffle and butter hung over the table.

I took a bite of steak, my gaze drifting involuntarily past my wine glass to settle on her lips.

The curve was exquisite. She chewed with such delicacy, regal as a queen.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Frowning, I pulled it out to find three identical messages from the same number.

[Hello, it's me, Scarlett.]

[May I ask... when is the next service?]

[If possible, I hope... soon.]

"A new girl?" Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, her gaze curiously scanning my phone screen.

I killed the screen and tossed the phone onto the table.

"Not really."

She smiled, her eyes crinkling. "I thought our cold-hearted Lorenzo had finally figured out how to date someone."

I pulled at the corner of my mouth. "Just a plaything."

At yesterday's family dinner, my father had compared me to Tore in front of everyone—again.

His expression stern, his hand shamelessly slipping under Elizabeth's skirt.

Dirty old man.

Watching Elizabeth's cheeks flush deeper and deeper, her crimson lips parting slightly, I couldn't stand it anymore and left early.

Called Andrew to meet me at Nonna's for drinks.

If not for that, I never would've run into the woman named Scarlett.

Actually, that wasn't our first meeting.

I couldn't remember when exactly, but I'd seen her outside the police station once before.

She'd had bruises at the corner of her mouth then, like someone had hit her. She was there to file a report, seeking protection.

In the moonlight, the way she hung her head reminded me of Elizabeth.

Until last night, when she reeked of sweet milk and I took her roughly.

She trembled the entire time, tears and snot smearing my silk pillowcase.

At first she tried to act tough, lying that she'd come to buy medicine.

And then what?

Half an hour later, she was on all fours beneath me, obedient as hell.

Screaming and begging for mercy, her eyes full of fear and hatred, yet forced to follow my commands and call my name over and over.

Her voice hoarse, stiff, ugly as sin.

"Lorenzo?"

Elizabeth's voice pulled me back to reality.

"Why are you spacing out?"

"Nothing." I took a sip of wine. "Just thinking about how to shut those Brooklyn Irish up for good."

"With guns?" She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

"No. We stopped being street thugs a long time ago."

"Good." Elizabeth looked at me, her pale green eyes bright. "Learn more from your father's legal team. The way they shuffle and absorb—that kills without bloodshed."

"I am learning."

I folded my hands on the table, spine straight.

"The family's Lorenzo can't be controlled by useless emotions. That's more lethal than an enemy's bullet."

Elizabeth was beautiful, elegant, refined—every inch of her hit my aesthetic perfectly.

Too bad she was legally my stepmother.

Scarlett was just a knockoff, but at least fucking her felt decent enough.

Jesus Christ.

How many times had I thought about her today?

I frowned in irritation and sent her an address.

[One hour. Wait at Kowalski Avenue. I'll have my driver bring clothes and a wig to pick you up.]

[Every minute you're late costs you five hundred.]