Page 23 of Savage Roses

“Why won’t anybody forgive me?!” she wails, covering her face with her hands. Her long crimson nails dig into her artificially tanned skin. “It’s not like I… hic… had a say… hic… in anything! I never meant to betray you. I’m so, so sorry, anima gemella.”

I’d been confused why Stefania was slurring and stammering, calling me her fuckingsoulmate. Telling me she’d had no choice in some matter. Apologizing for some sort of betrayal.

Then, it hit me. The worst night of Lucius’s life was the culmination of a power struggle between him and Leandro—one years in the making—after Lucius had allegedly pulled some underhanded tricks to weasel his way into not only my grandfather’s good graces, but winning Stefania’s hand in marriage.

Whatever shady shit he’d pulled had been found out by Leandro.

Hence what set into motion the worst night of Lucius's life. The night I intend on exposing to the entire criminal world soon.

But I’ve never given it thought as towhocould’ve tipped off Leandro; just who was it that could’ve betrayed Lucius and caused what happened to him?

It provides a level of clarity that leaves me seeing my whole life in a new light. Lucius has always detested Stefania and me. He’s hated our guts. The very air we breathe.

…because his own wife betrayed him.

Something in those photos, something in her phone, has to be a clue.

So while Lucius is sending his hound dogs to pursue my fake lead, I’m putting feelers out for my real one. I’ve had Stitches working with our computer guy to hack into the camera system at the Mancino estate in hopes they can recover the footage from the night of Stefania’s passing.

I’ve begun drafting up plans to scope out each of Lucius's other properties; if he were going to hide Stefania’s belongings, it’s possible he did so by blending it in with others at a different estate (assuming he didn’t have it destroyed).

At my behest, Fabio and Arturo even pay a visit to her longtime shrink. They use some interesting intimidation methods trying to get him to spill on things she told him. He does, but none of it proves useful.

The only downside about pulling off such a deceptive plan is you become more paranoid. Any moment Lucius might realize I’ve been leading him astray; he might catch on or prove he’s actually one step ahead.

Our war can escalate into physical violence… its inevitable conclusion.

Every start of a car. Every step down a public street. Every night as I survey the crowds in Nirvana, it’s on my mind.

Waiting for his move.

The many possible scenarios crowd my mind, my newest fixation. At all hours my body buzzes with energy. Sleep eludes me. Rest escapes me no matter how hard I try.

How can I lay my head down when anything can happen at any moment?

The gym becomes my refuge. There’s one located on the third floor of my compound, equipped with the bare necessities like a weight and cardio room. The contractors that remodeled the building constructed a sparring room at my request, complete with punching bags, a built-in ring, cushioned flooring, and other state-of-the-art features.

Any given night at three or four a.m., I’m there, sweating bullets, pummeling the shit out of a punching bag, pretending it’s Lucius's pudgy, bloated face.

He’d never fight me man to man. Not these days. Not now that he no longer towers over me, and can’t squash me like a bug.

That’s when I was a boy.

Fear flashed in his eyes the one time I demonstrated how the tables had turned in my favor. I could easily physically dominate him.

I’d snapped—I’d showed my hand in a way I didn’t normally, after he’d sent his men to my loft and destroyed everything I owned. I slammed him against the wall and choked him out. For once, Lucius wondered if hewas actuallylosing control.

My fist collides with the punching bag, sending it flying back on its chain. If I had my way, it would come down to me tearing him apart with my bare hands. Once I’ve humiliated him and taken away his power, I’d delight in the chance to rip him apart.

The sweetest kill.

Blood splatters onto the punching bag as I throw out a few combination hits. My knuckles have split open, but I don’t give a shit. Technically, a bag as heavy and granular as this, you’re supposed to at least use wraps. But the burning pain feels too good.

As always, a reminder I’m alive.

I draw back my bloody fist, ready to pound the bag some more. Someone steps behind me, their movement so stealthy and silent it’s not a sound I hear but a presence I sense. My adrenaline pumping and heart racing, I spin around and grab them by the arm, about to execute a maneuver that’ll have them flipped on their ass.

Then I freeze. My breath stalls in my lungs. My viselike grip releases and I feel like I’m the one who’s been knocked on my ass.