Chapter 3
Matteo Duca had not slept.
He had spent the night in his study, a glass of whiskey untouched at his elbow, staring at the same dossier on his desk for six hours without reading a single word. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it. The mark. The bruise. The evidence of another man’s hands on her skin.
He had known Elena Donovan for eighteen months. Eighteen months of watching her. Eighteen months of learning the rhythm of her footsteps, the cadence of her voice, the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating. He had catalogued every detail of her existence like a man stockpiling provisions for a siege he knew was coming.
The morning she had walked in with that mark on her neck, he had felt something inside him break.
He had never lost control like that. Not in fifteen years of running Duca Holdings. Not in the ten years before that, when he was building his empire from the ashes of his father’s failure. He had been shot at. Stabbed. Betrayed. He had ordered men’s deaths with less emotion than he felt when she walked into a room.
But seeing that mark—seeing proof that someone else had touched her, had pressed their mouth to her skin, had claimed her in a way he had never allowed himself to—it had undone him.
Matteo set down the pen he had been holding. He hadn’t realized he was still holding it.
“Dominic.”
His head of security appeared in the doorway within seconds. Dominic Rossi had been with him for twelve years. He knew things that would send other men to prison. He had never once asked a question.
“Sir.”
“Elena Donovan left early today. I want to know where she is.”
Dominic’s expression didn’t change. “I’ll find out.”
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“Do it quietly.”
“Always.”
Dominic disappeared. Matteo returned to staring at the window. The city spread out below him, a grid of glass and steel that answered to his will. He had built this. He had fought for it. He had killed for it.
And yet.
The phone on his desk buzzed. Dominic’s voice came through the speaker.
“She’s at a restaurant. La Bella Luna. Table for two. She’s having dinner with a man.”
Matteo’s hand closed into a fist.
“Description.”
“Late twenties. Dark hair. Suit. He arrived separately. She’s been there for approximately forty minutes.”
“Get the car.”
“Mr. Duca—”
“Get the car.”
The line went dead.
Matteo stood. He adjusted his cuffs. He walked out of his office and did not look back.
The drive took fifteen minutes. He spent it staring at his own reflection in the tinted window of the back seat. The man looking back at him was a stranger. A man who had spent eighteen months pretending he didn’t feel what he felt. A man who had kept his distance because he was dangerous, because his world would swallow her whole, because she deserved better than a man whose hands were stained with things that could never be washed clean.
But the thought of another man touching her. The thought of her going home with someone else. The thought of her waking up in someone else’s bed.
No.
The car pulled up to the curb. Matteo could see them through the restaurant window. Elena was wearing a green dress. He had never seen her in anything but professional attire. The dress transformed her. She was laughing at something the man had said.
The man was leaning toward her. He was attractive. Clean-cut. The kind of man who had never broken a bone in pursuit of power. The kind of man who could give her a normal life.
Matteo hated him.
“Wait here,” he said to Dominic.
“Mr. Duca—”
“I said wait.”
He got out of the car. The restaurant door chimed as he entered. The maître d’ recognized him immediately—of course he did—and began to stammer a greeting. Matteo ignored him.
He walked directly to the table.
Elena looked up. Her smile died. Her eyes went wide.
“Matteo.”
The man turned. He extended his hand with practiced confidence.
“Mark Chen. I’m a friend of Elena’s. Are you a colleague?”
Matteo took the offered hand. He squeezed. Mark’s face flickered—surprise, then pain, then understanding.
“Matteo Duca,” he said. “Elena’s employer.”
He did not release the hand.
“I see,” Mark said, his voice tight. “Elena didn’t mention her boss would be joining us.”
“She didn’t know.”
Matteo released Mark’s hand and turned to Elena. She was staring at him with a mixture of fury and disbelief.
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to speak with you. It’s urgent.”
“We’re having dinner.”
“It can’t wait.”
Elena’s jaw tightened. She looked at Mark, then back at Matteo.
“Elena,” Mark said, “if you need to—”
“I don’t. We’re having dinner.” She picked up her wine glass. “You can wait for me at the office, Mr. Duca. I’ll be there when I’m finished.”
For a moment, Matteo said nothing. The restaurant hummed around them. Candlelight flickered. Wine glasses clinked.
Then he leaned down, close to her ear, and spoke in a voice only she could hear.
“Come outside. Please.”
The word hung in the air. Please. He never said please.
May you like
Elena’s hand trembled on the stem of her glass.
She set it down.
