There’s a picture on my desk I haven’t looked at in years.

It’s old, sun-bleached in the corners. I’m probably nine in it. My hair’s too long, my smile crooked, and standing right beside me is Mateo smiling like he had just won the lottery.

Mateo came into the family when I was seven and he was fifteen. A foster arrangement, they said. His parents were family friends, but they were killed in a drug war my father had been too late to stop. My father brought him into our home as a favor because he loved Mateo's late father. But from the start, Mateo walked in like he was entitled to the favor.

He was tall for his age, all sharp eyes and quiet footsteps. Even at fifteen, he had this way of moving that made people pause. He didn't ask for things like respect, space or attention like I did. He simply got them. And too easily. Slowly, he became my father’s favourite.

It started small. He called him “Padrino” before I did. He followed him everywhere, watched how he handled deals and family business. When I would run around in the garden or get scolded for talking too much at dinner, Mateo would sit silently beside our father, observing, listening, learning.

I hated it.

I saw it before anyone else did. That hunger behind his eyes. Mateo didn’t just want to belong. He wanted to replace me.

He wanted to be Morales.

He worked for it too. He studied the business, charmed the soldiers into adoring him, he made himself indispensable. Meanwhile, I got told to “be more like your cousin” more times than I could count. My own father once said, “Mateo understands what it takes to lead this family. You just want to protect it.”

It cut deep. Maybe it still does.

But Mateo never let me forget it. He saw me as a rival long before I even understood what the stakes were. He’d make slick comments in front of guests, call me out on small mistakes during our cartel meetings, and offer a smile that felt more like a warning.

He never needed to raise his voice. Mateo knew how to twist the knife without showing the blade.

Even now, years later, nothing has changed.

When Millie said he creeped her out, something cold and bitter uncoiled in my chest. She was right. He always had that effect on good people.

And now, Mateo probably knows about her past. Not only that, he has joined forces with the one person that I have been restraining myself so hard from killing. Dan Rivers.

The message from my investigator replayed in my head. Dan Rivers. A serial abuser in many failed marriages and a rapist. Second in command to an unknown don. And he was tied somehow to a business building under Mateo’s name.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

Mateo knew exactly who Dan was. And now he was using him, dangling his presence before me like a bait. Like a silent threat. Just enough to unsettle me.

He wanted me off balance. Mateo had always believed the Morales empire should have been his. Not by blood, but by merit. That he had worked harder. Fought smarter. Been tougher.

I disagreed even though my father never did.

I sat in my dimly lit study, fingers clenching the edge of the desk. Her name was carved into my thoughts.

Millie.

He would not touch her.

He would not come near her.

He would not—

“Hey,” a soft voice murmured behind me.

I turned, and there she was, standing before me.

She looked too elegant, too beautiful for what she had encountered.

She was in one of my shirts again, her bare legs just visible beneath the hem. Her honey blonde hair was messy from sleep, tucked lazily behind one ear. But her eyes. God, those eyes held something warm and sleepy, that made her so enchanting to watch.

“You’ve been in here a while,” she said.

I stood up and crossed the room in two steps.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I said honestly.

She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the back of my hand. “You looked like you were fighting ghosts.”

I tried to smile, but it faltered. “Just one. And he wears my last name.”

Her brow furrowed. “Mateo?”

I nodded.

She looked up at me for a long moment, then slid her arms around my waist. “Whatever games he’s playing, you’ll win. You always do.”

I wanted to believe that.

I wanted to bury every memory I had of Mateo’s manipulations, his smirks, the way he always found my weak points and pressed down hard. I wanted to forget the fact that he was still playing chess while I was too busy protecting what mattered most to me.

Millie.

But then she rose on her toes and kissed me.

And for a few seconds, the world spun slower.

Her mouth was soft, unhurried. Like she wasn’t trying to distract me from the war raging outside, just anchor me through it. My hands slid up her back, gripping the fabric of my shirt wrapped around her. She tasted like cinnamon and quiet strength, and I deepened the kiss because suddenly I needed to feel her more than I needed to breathe.

Her fingers found my hair, threading through it, pulling me closer.

I walked her backwards until her spine met the wall, and she gasped softly against my mouth. I tilted her chin, kissed the base of her neck, then let my forehead rest against hers.

“I don’t know how to keep you safe from someone like him,” I whispered.

“You already are,” she replied. “By being you.”

A silence stretched between us. One filled with too much truth.

Then came a sharp buzz from my phone.

I glanced down and froze.

Unknown Number. One image. One sentence.

The image was Mateo.

Sitting at a table.

With Dan Rivers.

And the message beneath it?

“They’re planning something.”

I texted back.

"Keep your eyes on them."

I gave Millie a quick peck before leaving for the balcony to dish out instructions to my men.