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For a long while, we lie there, catching our breaths. My fingers lazily feather through her hair as she plants small kisses along my chest.
Then my phone buzzes, snapping me out of the blissful haze. Annoyed, I glance over and see yet another text.
This time, my idiot uncle has sent me a time and a location. I grit my teeth, trying to control my body’s response.
The irritation simmers just below the surface, but nothing will disturb Bella and the warmth of her afterglow.
My uncle never wants to meet, so it’s either an ambush or a truce. An ambush makes more sense. But a truce...
My mind toys with the notion that Kennedy is mine, free and clear of my uncle.
“She is yours,” the Scottish voice whispers, and for a fleeting moment, I almost believe the madman in my head.
Until the last text comes through.
It’s a picture of Kennedy, dressed in a flowing, emerald-green dress that clings to her curves in all the right places. The neckline plunges just enough to tease, while the delicate lace sleeves add a touch of elegance.
The fact that my uncle is having her followed isn’t a surprise; my men had already tipped me off.
But what grabs my attention is Riley, standing right in front of the townhouse I put her up in. It’s more than just surveillance.
It’s a message.
And it looks like no matter what, I’m getting fucked in the ass today, too.
Chapter Nineteen
ENZO
The ocean crashes against the rocky cliffside, each wave a thunderous reminder that power comes in many forms. In its rawest form, it’s nature. In my form, it’s a net worth that rivals half the free world and a small militia at my beck and call.
The beach sprawls out, an endless stretch of desolate sand and restless sea, the only movement a few seagulls circling above.
If one of them shits on my suit, I swear to God, I’ll shoot them.
Andre finally rolls up, twenty minutes late. It baffles me that there was ever a time I considered him anything but pond scum. His crooked smile and perpetual smirk lock onto me, stirring a potent cocktail of anger and regret I’ve spent my life trying to bury.
Seeing him now, a fresh wave of bitter memories crashes over me. It’s like bandaging a wound with barbed wire—brutal and excruciating, each thought ripping me apart all over again.
If I hadn’t given him an ounce of respect back then, maybe none of this would be happening. And no matter how I distance myself, I’m always drawn back in.
His web of destruction is vast, nearly invisible until you’re trapped at the center of it. No matter how far I go, its strands are always floating around, their sticky presence constantly brushing against my skin.
Uncle Andre’s brand-new car represents him to a T—sporty enough to broadcast his one-inch dick and expensive enough to make people fawn over it. Some might call it luxurious; I call it gaudy as fuck.
He exits and heads towards me. If I kill him on the spot, who would know?
But then I catch the glint of a sniper rifle reflected on a distant crag. From the angle, I know it’s not one of my guys. Which means it’s one of his, and they would definitely know. Probably take me out with a clean, precise bullet straight to the heart.
Killjoy.
“Having fun with the girl?” Uncle Andre sneers, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.
There’s a glint in his eyes that I can’t quite read—sadism, pleasure, maybe both. Then he pulls out a vial, and I see it’s just my coked-up uncle itching for a hit.
He dabs some onto his hand and takes a long, indulgent sniff—his twisted version of liquid courage. Normally, he’d offer me some, knowing I’d refuse. But today, there’s no offer. Guess he’s not feeling so charitable after I annihilated one of his choke points.
I don’t bother with pleasantries. I shove both hands into my pockets, too exhausted for this conversation. “What do you want?” I spit, my patience as worn as the bad rug on his head.
