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The mature understanding he'd shown in the candlelight moments ago—gone.

Standing there was a ruthless man radiating extreme danger, someone who controlled from the top.

Dock interests, seized cargo, cold Sicilian threats, violence executed with practiced ease...

I pressed against the cold brick wall in the corridor, legs too weak to stand, mind completely blank.

That scene in Paris—beating down the mugger—flashed back. I'd thought it was a one-time loss of control, protective instinct. But now, with dock interests, seized shipments, cold Sicilian threats... all the pieces came together, pointing brutally toward a truth I didn't want to admit.

He was never just a businessman.

Every step he took mixed with violence, gray dealings, danger ready to explode anytime.

"Ruby."

Marcelo dropped the bloodied handkerchief. The cold killing intent in his eyes slammed to a halt when he turned and saw my ashen face. He instinctively reined in his oppressive aura, striding toward me, reaching out. "It's over. Just people I've had business conflicts with. Don't be afraid."

But the second before his fingers could touch me—

Like touching a red-hot brand, I jerked backward a huge step, hands clenched tight in my coat pockets, avoiding his palm.

Marcelo's hand stopped mid-air. Froze.

His rough knuckles curled slightly. The air between us turned to ice.

I looked up at him. That handsome face that had made me want to give him my heart just moments ago—now in the yellow light, it radiated a bone-chilling strangeness and unknown.

"Mr. Moretti..."

I heard my own voice trembling, fragmented, weak. The love and impulse that had filled my heart completely drowned in endless fear and instinctive retreat.

"I want... I want to go home."

Chapter 21

Marcelo & Ruby

Marcelo

The silence in the car was suffocating.

The wipers dragged across the windshield in monotonous rhythm. In the passenger seat, Ruby had her coat collar yanked up to her chin, pressed against the door like she was trying to become part of it. Her hands twisted together in her lap, knuckles bone-white. Twenty minutes since we'd left that basement restaurant in Greenwich Village, and she still hadn't taken a full breath.

She was afraid of me.

When she'd stumbled backward in that darkened hallway, it had hit me like a slap of ice water to the face.

I kept one hand on the wheel, thumb working the leather seam, fire building in my throat. Lorenzo DeLuca's smug face still burned behind my eyes. The DeLuca family had their claws in my territory now, testing my boundaries, forcing my hand. The last thing I needed was to expose a weakness.

And I'd brought her straight into that restaurant.

I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell her that in Manhattan, on the East Coast, business rules were fairy tales printed on paper—real order was built on bullets and silence. I wanted to tell her that as long as she stood behind me, DeLuca could blow up the whole damn city and never touch a hair on her head.

But what the hell could I say?

"Hey Ruby, don't be scared, I just happen to be a mob boss who's been killing people for twenty years"?

Fucking ridiculous.