Lucas

The silence in my penthouse felt heavier than any gun I had ever carried.

The glass of whiskey on the table caught the dim light, untouched. My cigar had burned down to ash, abandoned in its tray. I should have been out with my men, giving orders, drawing blood — but I couldn’t bring myself to leave this room.

It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t fear. It was something worse.

Her voice was still inside me.

Every damn syllable she had thrown at me before she was ripped out of my ...