Diego’s POV

“There’s something you need to know,” I said, the words tasting like rust in my mouth.

Davina stiffened, as if the air around her had dropped ten degrees. “Is it my family?” she asked, her voice tight. “Did something happen?”

I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t. Saying it out loud would make it real—and I wasn’t sure she was ready for real.

She shot up from the bed, panic written across her face.

“Your mom has been shot.”

That was when she started to unravel. Her breath caught, and she swayed like she might lose her balance.

I opened my mouth to calm her, but stopped when her fists clenched. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will.

“You need to take a breath,” I said, my voice low and rough.

“A breath?” Her eyes locked on mine—dry, angry, refusing to cry. “Listen, I know I’m just a random, insignificant cog in your wheel—”

“Wrong,” I cut in, harsher than I intended. “A cog has a purpose. You don’t.”

Cruel words. But not untrue.

She didn’t belong in this world—my world—and I hated that I had dragged her into it.

What made it worse was knowing she could have mattered. She should have.

But I’d missed the signs. I’d let my guard down. And now I was paying for it—up close and personal.

She straightened, her shoulders squared though I could see the tremor in them. Then she stepped toward me.

One step. Direct. Steady.

Like she was daring me to say something she wouldn’t forgive.

“Say that again,” she demanded, stopping right in front of me. “Say it like you mean it, and I’ll believe you.”

I didn’t.

She edged closer. Her dress was torn in half a dozen places, but she didn’t seem to notice. The blood running down her thighs didn’t faze her either.

“I’m going to tell you something, Diego.” Her voice was low, steady, dangerous. “From today onward, my goal is to expose you. I’ll bring down your entire operation and make sure you end up in prison for every crime you’ve committed.”

She closed the distance between us without a trace of fear.

“I’ll dig through everything. I’ll find every scrap of evidence you’ve left behind—unless you tell me where my family is.”

I blinked once.

The nerve. No one spoke to me like that. Not to my face. Not even my enemies.

But there she was—smaller than me, unarmed, completely alone—threatening me like she had nothing to lose.

“Your mother’s alive,” I said. There was no point in lying.

She gasped, a sound caught between a laugh and a sob. Her knees shook, and tears slipped down her face.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “You’re sure? She’s really alive? Where is she? I need to see her.”

“She’s unconscious.”

“Just tell me where,” she snapped. “No guards. No escort. Just tell me the place.”

“I don’t care what you want,” I shot back. “You’re not going anywhere unless I say so.”

She moved right up to me, reckless, bold. The soft scent of vanilla and hazelnut clung to her—warm, familiar, far more dangerous than it should have been.

“And who are you to decide where I can go?”

She was in my face now, not bluffing.

“If what you say is true,” I replied, “then I’m the father of your child. Wherever you go, my child goes too. Which means I have a say.”

She froze, breath catching, then leaned in with fire blazing in her eyes.

“Or what?” she challenged. “You’ll send your men, pull a gun, lock me up?”

“Don’t test me.”

She laughed, sharp and cruel. “I’m pregnant with your baby. You can’t touch me.”

Oh, ye of little faith. There were a million ways to break her without laying a finger on her.

Her smirk faltered.

“Keep testing me,” My voice dropped to a whisper. “You’ll see how far I’ll go.”

But I wasn’t warning her.

Every defiance only dragged me deeper—into this pull, this hunger.

She thought she was fighting me.

But all she was doing was binding herself tighter.

And I’d never let her walk away.