Zara's Pov

The first thing I heard was the screaming.

Not muffled. Not distant. Just raw, open-throated agony echoing through the marble halls of Lucien Moretti’s empire like music.

I shouldn’t have come, but my pride doesn’t listen to warnings. Neither does my curiosity or my dangerous craving for him.

And now I was walking into hell, heels clicking across the obsidian floors of a place that didn’t feel like an office. It felt like a cathedral built for sinners, where blood was worshipped and rules were punishments waiting to happen.

I pushed open the double doors.

Lucien sat at the head of the long, matte black table like a goddamn king—backlit by floor-to-ceiling windows that cast him in silhouette. His navy shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Tattoos coiled around his forearms like sin itself.

Seven men sat around the table—brutal faces, sharp suits, and cold eyes. Mafia captains. Soldiers. Monsters.

And at the center of the room…The man who had been screaming.

Tied to a metal chair. Shirtless. His chest a canvas of blood and bruises. Face swollen, nose broken, lip split wide. His head lolled, but when he saw Lucien step toward him, he flinched like a beaten dog.

“P-please,” the man croaked, voice soaked in blood. “Boss…I swear I didn’t know..”

Lucien didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t rush.

He walked.

Slow. Controlled. A blade hidden in a man’s skin.

And then he stopped in front of the bleeding wreck.

“Didn’t know what?” he asked, voice silk over steel.

“That she was one of ours,” the man sobbed. “I…I didn’t touch her! I swear. I only..”

Lucien slammed a fist into his face so hard the man’s chair skidded back two inches, metal scraping tile. His body jerked like a puppet. Blood sprayed across the polished floor.

Lucien exhaled slowly, then turned slightly toward his men.

He said casually and calmly. “No one touches what’s mine.”

The men murmured agreement like it was scripture.

My heart was thundering. I tried to step back. A shadow moved.

Two guards blocked the doorway behind me, their eyes flat. One had a knife tucked behind his belt. The other stared at me like I was a problem waiting to be handled.

I turned back, gripping the strap of my bag so tight it cut into my skin. “Lucien”

His eyes flicked to me.

And fuck.

It was like being pinned to the wall with nothing but a look.

He didn’t answer me.

Instead, he bent toward the man, grabbed his chin, and forced his head up.

The man sobbed. “Please, boss. I’ve got a daughter…”

Lucien reached for the tray beside him. Picked up a small blowtorch.

Clicked it once.

Blue flame hissed alive.

The man screamed before it even touched him. He begged. Cried.

Lucien didn’t care.

He lowered the flame toward the man’s collarbone. A sickening sizzle filled the air, followed by a scream so sharp it felt like it tore through my own chest.

I turned away. My stomach twisted.

Lucien’s voice came soft and cruel. “That’s for touching what doesn’t belong to you.”

And then the sound of flesh cooking.

I thought I’d seen darkness.

But Lucien wasn’t darkness.

He was void.

No mercy. No hesitation. A goddamn reaper in a designer suit.

When he finally turned the torch off, the man was half-unconscious, shaking. Smoke curled from his skin. His chest rose and fell in ragged, broken rhythm.

Lucien stood. Wiped his hands on a towel like he’d just finished cooking a meal. Walked toward me like he hadn’t just burned a man alive.

“You came to see me?” he asked.

I blinked. My mouth was dry.

I looked at the guards. The silence in the room. The unwavering eyes of his men.

Lucien Moretti wasn’t just part of the mafia.

He was its fucking king.

“You wanted to know who I am?” he said, stepping closer.

I didn’t back away.

But my throat tightened as his hand came up and curled under my chin.

“This is who I am, baby,” he said, voice like poisoned honey. “And now you’ve seen it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He let go.

My skin burned where his fingers had touched.

And for one terrifying, shameful second. I was soaking fucking wet.