(AVERY'S POV)

I grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.

Rick stiffened for a split second—just a fraction of hesitation—before he snapped.

His hands shot up, gripping my face, pulling me in like he needed me to breathe. The kiss was hard, raw, brutal—a clash of anger and desperation, pain and something darker, deeper.

He kissed me like he hated me for making him feel. Like he was trying to drown out every ghost, every fucking nightmare with my lips.

My fingers curled into his shirt, clutching, pulling, holding. I felt his heartbeat slamming against my palm, the sharp rise and fall of his chest against mine. His breath was hot, uneven, wrecked.

His grip tightened—too hard, too desperate. Like he didn't trust himself to let go.

I slid a hand into his hair, threading my fingers through the strands, tugging, needing more.

Rick let out a low growl—a sound so deep, so guttural, it sent heat pooling between my legs. His hands dropped to my waist, gripping, yanking me closer, until there wasn't a breath of space between us. The solid heat of him—hard muscle, raw strength—pinned me in place.

I gasped against his mouth, and that was all it took.

Rick bit my lip, his teeth dragging over the sensitive skin before his tongue slid in, demanding, taking, claiming.

I pulled back, gasping for air, my entire body on fire.

My lips felt swollen, tingling from the force of Rick's kiss, from the way he had taken, consumed, fucking owned every breath I had left in me. My chest rose and fell, desperate for oxygen, but it didn't feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough.

Rick was the same—panting, his pupils blown wide, his jaw clenched like he was barely holding himself together.

His hand shot out, gripping the back of my neck, dragging me in again, crashing his lips onto mine like he was punishing me for stopping. This kiss was even rougher, more desperate—a silent demand, a fucking claim.

He kissed me like he was starved, like he was drowning, like he had spent years fighting this and now, he didn't give a single fuck anymore.

His hands burned into my skin, fingers pressing, holding, keeping me where he wanted. He groaned against my mouth when I bit his lip.

Fuck. I was losing my mind.

I could feel the heat of his body, the sharp press of muscle against me, the sheer power of him caging me in. His tongue swept against mine, rough, demanding, fucking merciless. My fingers curled into his hair, pulling, needing, matching his hunger with my own.

I wanted more. More of this. More of him.

I didn't know how long we kissed—seconds, minutes, eternity—before he finally ripped himself away, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath ragged and uneven.

"Don't come," Rick muttered, his voice wrecked. Rough. Pleading.

I blinked, still dazed. "What?"

His grip tightened on my waist. Not letting go.

"The gala. Don't fucking come."

His words crashed into me like ice water.

I exhaled sharply, my hands pressing against his chest, pushing him back, shoving myself out of his grip.

I needed air. I needed to fucking breathe.

Rick's eyes locked onto mine—dark, unreadable, dangerous. His chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths.

We just stood there. Not speaking. Not moving. Just feeling everything.

The wind blew past us, rustling the trees, the only sound in the suffocating silence. My lips still tingled from him. My body still burned.

But I shook my head.

I turned.

And I walked away.

Leaving him standing there.

Alone.

-------------------------------

(The next morning)

I ignored him.

I fucking ignored him.

After that kiss, after the goddamn argument, I woke up with a decision— Rick Conrad, or should I say Don Rossi, no longer existed to me. I wasn't going to acknowledge him in any way, shape, or form.

Not the way my lips still tingled from his. Not the way my skin ached from his hands gripping me like he never wanted to let go.

Not the way his words echoed in my head like a slap.

So when I walked into the kitchen the next morning, I kept my head high, my expression blank, and I didn't look at him.

Bryce, Fred, and George were already there, crowding around the kitchen island, plates stacked with eggs, toast, and bacon. Thomas sat at the head of the counter, nursing his coffee, looking like he owned the place.

Rick was standing by the coffee machine, leaning against the counter, his back toward me. I ignored the way his shoulders tensed when I entered. I ignored him, period.

I took a seat on a stool, grabbed a plate, and focused on eating. Because that was the plan—act normal, act like last night never happened, act like Rick didn't kiss me like he wanted to destroy me.

Or maybe... like I didn't kiss him first.

Rick moved behind me, reaching for something. I didn't react.

Then he did it again, this time leaning in closer—his chest brushing against my shoulder, his arm grazing against mine as he stretched forward.

I kept my eyes on my plate, pretending not to notice.

For a second, I thought he was just reaching for the pepper.

And then—

He shifted, his face suddenly right next to mine—so close that when he turned his head, his lips brushed against mine.

Soft. Brief. A whisper of a kiss. Barely there, but enough.

I froze. My fork stopped mid-air. My brain short-circuited.

Rick pulled back, smirking slightly as he picked up the pepper shaker, his grey eyes dark and knowing.

"Just giving back what you gave me last night," he murmured, voice low, rough—cocky.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

The room went silent.

I turned just in time to see three pairs of eyes gawking at us—Bryce, Fred, and George looking like their souls had just left their bodies.

The only person not surprised? Thomas. Who was smirking over the rim of his coffee cup like the smug bastard he was.

Rick stepped away, rolling his shoulders like nothing happened.

"I'll be in the office," he said to Thomas, before striding out of the kitchen like he hadn't just fucking kissed me in front of everyone.

Thomas followed him quietly.

As soon as they were gone, chaos erupted.

Bryce nearly choked on his toast. "WHAT THE—"

Fred gawked. "Did that just—?"

George pointed at me, then the door, then me again. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"

I grabbed my fork and shoved a piece of pancake into my mouth, chewing aggressively. "Nothing."

Bryce snorted. "NOTHING?"

"Yeah," I muttered, still chewing. "Nothing is happening between us."

Fred scoffed. "NOTHING?! He just walked in here and mouth-fucked you in front of all of us!"

I choked on my pancake.

Bryce grinned, slamming a hand on the counter. "And we're just supposed to pretend we didn't see you two sucking face like starved animals last night?"

Wait. What.

I froze.

"You—" I swallowed hard. "You guys were watching?"

Fred leaned back, grinning.

"Not voluntarily. We were just out in the yard, minding our own business, and then—BOOM. You launched yourself at him."

George laughed, shaking his head. "You ate his face like you hadn't eaten in days."

I fucking died.

My whole body went hot, my face burning. I threw my fork down, stood up so fast the stool scraped against the floor, and walked away before they could say another word.

"OH, COME ON, AVERY!"

Bryce called out, cackling.

"DON'T BE SHY NOW!"

I didn't stop.

I went straight to the mini library, slammed the door shut, and let out a long, suffering groan.

What the fuck just happened?

I spent the rest of the morning holed up in the mini library, flipping through books without actually reading a single damn word. My mind was a fucking mess—flashing between last night's kiss, this morning's stunt, and the fact that the guys had seen everything.

I was going to kill them.

Every single one of them.

By afternoon, the house was quieter. The guys had gone out to get their suits fitted for the gala, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the dull hum of the ceiling fan.

Good.

I needed peace.

And then my phone rang.

Rick.

I stared at the screen, lips pressing together.

Nope. Not happening.

I cut the call.

Two seconds later, it rang again.

I cut it off. Again.

Then, my phone vibrated with a text.

Rick: Do you want anything?

I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in the back of my head.

My fingers flew over the screen.

Me: Hawk tuhh.

I smirked, tossing the phone onto the desk, knowing exactly what I'd just done.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Rick's POV)

I stared down at my phone, narrowing my eyes at the text on the screen.

Hawk tuhh.

The fuck?

I turned to Bryce, holding the phone up.

"Did this bitch just spit at me through the phone?"

Bryce took one look at my screen and fucking collapsed.

"OH MY FUCKING GOD."

He wheeze-laughed so hard he had to grab a clothing rack for support, nearly knocking over a mannequin.

Fred and George rushed over, read the text, and immediately started howling.

"Bro—" George clutched his stomach, struggling to breathe. "That's so fucking disrespectful."

Fred wiped a fake tear from his eye.

"She really said 'fuck you' with sound effects."

I slid my phone back into my pocket. My jaw tightened. I turned my head slightly, flicking my eyes between them.

The laughter died instantly.

"Oh, shit," Bryce muttered, taking one step back.

I didn't say anything.

Then, in one smooth move—

I snatched a hanger off the rack and whipped it against the back of Fred's thigh.

WHACK.

"FUCK—" Fred jumped like his soul just left his body. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"

Bryce turned to run, but I was faster.

I grabbed the back of his hoodie, yanked him down, and headlocked his ass before rubbing my knuckles into his scalp—hard.

"NO—FUCK—" Bryce kicked his legs like a dying fish. "STOP—YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME BALD—"

I let him go just to shove him into the dressing room and slam the door shut.

"You're dead."

"WAIT—NO—"

A thud. Followed by Bryce's very pained "MOTHERFUCKER—"

George, the little snake, was already sneaking away.

I caught his ear between my fingers and twisted.

"FUCK—OW—OW—" He flailed like a little bitch. "NOT THE EAR, MAN—"

"That's for laughing."

I yanked him forward and headbutted him right in the shoulder.

Solid impact.

George staggered back, clutching his arm like he'd been shot.

"WHAT THE FUCK, RICK?"

I tilted my head.

"That's for sneaking into my agency like a little rat—thinking I wouldn't know you were Thomas's lapdog the whole damn time."

Bryce and Fred, despite their near-death experiences, fucking lost it.

Bryce collapsed onto the floor, slapping his knee.

Fred clapped again, like this was a damn comedy special. "Bro, he got folded like a lawn chair—"

I turned.

Bryce and Fred froze.

Silence.

Then—

I lunged.

Bryce barely had time to yelp before I kicked his shin so hard he practically fucking levitated.

"AAAAAH—"

He crashed into a rack of blazers, taking down at least five with him.

Fred tried to bolt, but I grabbed another hanger and yeeted it straight at his ass.

Direct hit.

"FUCK—" Fred clutched his ass, staggering like he'd been shot.

I dusted off my hands, turning back to George, who was still blinking like he was reconsidering every life decision.

"Anyway," I muttered, rolling my shoulders, "you still work for me."

George groaned. Bryce wheezed from the floor.

Fred, rubbing his already bruised thigh, muttered, "Fucking tyrant."

"Say another word."

Fred shut the fuck up immediately.

From across the boutique, Thomas let out a long, exhausted sigh.

"For fuck's sake, behave."

I ignored him and rolled my shoulders, adjusting my jacket before stepping past them like nothing happened.

Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I swear to God, dealing with you four is worse than handling a fucking cartel."

Bryce stumbled out, still rubbing his shin. "He's a fucking menace."

Fred groaned. "We should report him for abuse."

George was still holding his ear. "I swear to god, he's got issues."

Thomas scoffed. "You have issues."

Bad move.

The three of them turned to him at the same time.

And just like that, the real bullying began.

"Oh, fuck off, Grandpa."

"Nah, you shut the fuck up, Thomas."

"Bro, your time is over. Go retire or something."

Thomas's eye twitched.

I smirked. For once, the chaos wasn't mine to deal with.

But then I looked him dead in the face and delivered the final blow.

"Careful, old man. Stand around too long, and they'll start measuring you for a coffin."

Bryce. Fred. George. Fucking lost it.

"STOP—" Bryce gasped. "HE KILLED YOU, BRO."

Thomas just stared at me.

Then he exhaled through his nose. "I hope Avery beats your ass one day."

I smirked. "She can try."

----------------------

The air in the room was thick—silent, charged, like the moment before a storm rips the sky apart. The only sound was the slow drag of my knife against the wooden table, the blade glinting under the dim light as I spun it between my fingers. A controlled weapon, waiting to strike.

Sergei Vladimir.

The name burned like acid on my tongue. The man who had taken everything from me. The man who put a bullet through my father's skull while I watched, blood pooling beneath his head like a sick fucking offering. The man who slaughtered my mother when she tried to shield Mariella, leaving me drenched in her blood at eight years old.

And now Avery.

He killed her caretaker—her only family. He sent his men after her, twice, like she was just another loose end to be erased.

He thought he could keep breathing after that?

Not a fucking chance.

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the table, gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. My fingers tightened around the handle of the knife before I drove it into the wood with a sharp thud. The sound echoed through the room. Final. Absolute.

"We don't go in there to negotiate. We go in there to bury him."

Thomas shifted in his seat, his jaw tight.

"If he resists, we take him out, sure. But if he plays along, we use him."

I twisted the knife deeper into the table, slow and deliberate.

"No. We slit his fucking throat."

My voice was calm. Cold.

"He's not leaving that gala alive."

Bryce exhaled, cracking his neck. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Fred smirked. "'Bout damn time."

George let out a low whistle. "So, we're turning this gala into a goddamn bloodbath?"

I looked at the screen in front of me—the blueprint of the L'Ordine Nero Gala. Sergei would be there, surrounded by his men, basking in the false security of power. He thought he owned this city. He thought his connections made him untouchable.

He was wrong.

"We make it clean. Swift. Precise. Sergei takes one wrong breath, and I'll put a bullet through his fucking skull."

Thomas sighed, rubbing his temple.

"You always were your father's son."

I turned my head, locking eyes with him.

"No. My father gave him a chance. I won't."

Silence. Heavy. Unspoken agreements settling between us.

Then, Bryce leaned forward, lips curving into a wicked grin.

"When do we put the bastard in the ground?"

I stared at the screen, at the layout of the ballroom, the exits, the security placements.

Then, slowly, I smirked.

"The second he breathes in my direction."

Because I have already carved Sergei's name into a fucking grave.