(AVERY'S POV)

I stirred, warmth wrapping around me like a cocoon. My body ached in places I didn't even know could ache, and the second I shifted, a deep soreness reminded me exactly why.

My face flamed. Oh god.

Last night.

I peeked up through heavy lashes, my cheek pressed against Rick's bare chest. His arm was draped lazily around my waist, holding me like he had no plans of letting go anytime soon. His scent—cologne and something purely him—was imprinted into my skin, intoxicating.

My eyes trailed over his sharp features, his breathing slow and steady. Asleep.

I bit my lip, hesitating for a second before lifting a hand and softly poking his cheek. Once. Twice. Nothing. His brows didn't even twitch.

I inhaled deeply, stealing a breath of his scent, before I couldn't help myself and snuggled into his chest, pressing my face into the warmth of his skin.

A deep exhale left his lips.

"Ahhh... what am I gonna do with you?"

I stiffened.

My head snapped up to find Rick's eyes open, watching me with a lazy, amused look.

Busted.

I swallowed back my embarrassment before chuckling softly.

"You were awake?"

His lips twitched. "For a while."

I smacked his shoulder, making him smirk.

Before I could roll away, he tugged me closer, burying his face in my neck. His lips brushed against my skin—soft, lazy kisses. I melted against him despite myself, letting him hold me in the quiet morning light.

His grip tightened. "How do you feel?"

Like I got hit by a truck. Then backed over for good measure.

I swallowed. "Sore."

His chest vibrated with a low chuckle. "Good."

I groaned, smacking him again. Smug bastard.

Before I could fight back properly, he sat up, pulled me into his arms, and lifted me effortlessly.

I squeaked, arms looping around his neck. "Rick—"

"Bath," he muttered simply, carrying me to the bathroom.

Warm steam filled the space as Rick lowered me into the tub, his hands never leaving my skin. He took care of me in silence—washing my hair, running slow, methodical strokes over my arms, my back. His touch, despite its roughness, was almost... gentle.

And the worst part? I didn't want him to stop.

I watched as his calloused fingers traced over my bruised thighs, his jaw tightening.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

I nodded, sinking deeper into the warmth, my eyes never leaving his.

Satisfied, Rick leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to my temple.

And that was my undoing.

After the bath, Rick made sure I ate some fruit before dragging me downstairs.

The dining hall was already packed. Long tables stretched across the massive space, filled with at least fifty of Rick's men. The clatter of utensils, low murmurs, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the air.

I tried my best to act normal as Rick led me to our usual spot near Bryce, Fred, and George. I told myself no one could tell. No one knew.

I was so, so wrong.

We sat down, and I reached for my coffee, pretending like my entire body wasn't sore.

That's when I heard it.

A few men sitting nearby—not whispering exactly, but talking just low enough to think I wouldn't catch it.

"She didn't come out of his room all night."

"That explains why he's in a good mood today."

"Lucky bastard."

Oh. My. God.

Heat crawled up my neck, my fingers tightening around my coffee cup.

I risked a glance at the boys.

Bryce sipped his coffee, fighting a smile. Fred raised a brow at me like he knew exactly why I was walking funny. And George? That traitor actually smirked.

I wanted to disappear. Vanish into thin air.

I quickly dropped my gaze, hiding my face behind my coffee cup. Maybe if I stayed perfectly still, they'd stop looking at me.

No such luck.

Bryce hummed, tilting his head. "You okay, Avery? You look... tired."

I nearly choked. He was enjoying this.

Fred fought back a smirk. "Must've had a long night."

George nodded, lips twitching. "Real long."

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I wanted to sink into the floor. Run. Hide. Anything. But no—I was stuck here, dying in real-time.

And then—because the universe hated me—I caught movement from across the table.

Thomas.

The one person I really didn't need witnessing any of this. He said nothing. No jokes. No comments.

Just smirked. And winked.

I nearly dropped my damn coffee.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

I turned to Rick, desperate for backup, for some kind of damage control.

But all I got was a slow sip of water.

Rick set his bottle down, exhaled, and smirked.

"She's fine." He cracked the bottle open again and added, "But if you heard that much, you should know she wasn't begging me to stop."

Silence.

Bryce snorted. Fred looked away, biting his knuckle to keep from laughing. George just shook his head, covering his mouth.

And Thomas?

Smirked even wider.

I smacked my forehead against the table.

Rick leaned in, voice low. "Hiding won't help, Caine."

I groaned. "I hate you."

He chuckled, lifting a hand to pat my head. "No, you don't."

I hated how right he was.

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

(Rick's POV)

Two weeks.

Two weeks of endless planning, sleepless nights, and keeping Avery out of it.

I adjusted my cufflinks, eyes flicking to the mirror in the front hall. Black suit, crisp white shirt, and a tie I already hated. The ball was supposed to be an easy job—get in, handle business, get out. A chance to blend in and remind a few people why my name meant something.

Everything was set. Everyone knew their roles.

Then she walked down the stairs.

I went still.

Avery.

A deep red gown, silk hugging her frame, the slit riding too damn high up her leg. Her hair was pinned up, exposing her neck—delicate, vulnerable. She was everything she shouldn't be tonight.

And she was walking straight toward me.

I exhaled slowly, jaw locking.

"No."

She stopped in front of me, lifting her chin slightly. "Yes."

I clenched my fists. "Avery."

"Rick," she mocked, folding her arms. "You know I was always going to be part of this."

I dragged a hand down my face. I should've seen this coming. I should've locked her in my damn room if I had to.

But it was too late now.

Too many eyes. Too many ears.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "You stay by my side. You don't fucking move unless I say so. Understood?"

Her throat bobbed, but she nodded. I wasn't convinced.

I gripped her chin, forcing her to look at me. "Say it."

She inhaled sharply. "I won't move unless you say so."

I let go. "Good girl."

Behind her, the idiots were watching. Bryce leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. Fred took a slow sip of his drink, waiting for the explosion. And George? The bastard just grinned like he lived for this.

"Aw, boss," Bryce drawled. "Let her have her fun."

I turned my glare on him. He held up his hands in surrender. "Just saying."

"Just shut up," I muttered, brushing past them. "We're leaving."

Avery jogged up beside me. "Wait."

I kept walking. "No."

She grabbed my arm. "Rick."

I stopped.

She hesitated, biting her lip. "I want to be part of the plan."

I stared at her.

She didn't waver.

I should've told her no. Shut her down. Locked her out.

Instead, I exhaled, shaking my head. "Fine. Don't fuck it up."

A grin flashed across her lips. "I won't."

I walked ahead, ignoring the heat in my chest.

Thomas was already by the car, watching with his usual smugness. "Took you long enough."

I ignored him, pulling open the door for Avery. She slipped inside, and I got in beside her, shutting the world out.

The engine rumbled to life.

Two cars.

The boys and Thomas in one.

Me and her in the other.

The night had just begun.

And I already fucking hated it.

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

The mansion loomed ahead, a fortress of wealth and power draped in excess. Tall gates, high walls, armed men stationed at every corner. It screamed opulence and blood money. A perfect place for a night of fake smiles, backhanded deals, and people too important for their own fucking good.

Inside, chandeliers spilled golden light over marble floors. Waiters moved like ghosts, balancing trays of expensive liquor. A live orchestra played something slow and pretentious. Men in tailored suits. Women in gowns worth more than a car. And underneath it all—the real business. The kind that didn't make it to the newspapers.

Avery slid her hand into the crook of my arm as we stepped inside. A perfect picture. A king and his queen. She played the part too damn well, her chin high, gaze sharp. But I could feel the tension in her grip. She knew what this was.

A test. A warning. A reminder that this world was never meant for her.

We didn't get two steps in before I saw him.

Christopher Marcus.

Billionaire. Owner of Marcus Corp. The man whose office tower Maria had gone to before she died. Sergei's old business partner. The man whose pockets were supposed to open for a "generous donation" to the orphanage.

And the same man I had been hunting ever since Maria died, but every lead turned cold. Not because he was careful —but because Sergei was keeping him hidden.

Marcus turned. His gaze landed on us.

No.

On her.

"Well, well," he mused, lips curving into a slow smirk.

"Veriano Carlo Rossi. I was expecting you. But I wasn't expecting..." His eyes dragged over Avery like she was something to own. "Who might you be, sweetheart?"

Avery barely tensed, masking it with a practiced smile. "Avery Caine."

Marcus reached for her hand. I didn't let go of her arm. His gaze flicked to mine. A silent challenge.

And then, the bastard had the audacity to chuckle.

"Relax, Rossi. I'm just being polite."

No, he fucking wasn't.

I let go. Only because I chose to.

He took her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles, holding on a second too long before finally letting go.

"Stunning," he murmured.

Then—completely ignoring me—"Would you honor me with a dance, Miss Caine?"

The room wasn't silent, but it might as well have been. Eyes were watching. Listening. This wasn't just some rich asshole thinking with his dick. This was a move. A calculated, intentional fucking move.

I felt Avery glance at me.

I barely shifted my head. Go.

She nodded, letting Marcus lead her onto the dance floor.

I took a slow breath, my jaw tight, my hands already itching to snap something.

I walked to the bar, slow, controlled. Every step measured, my eyes still on them.

"Whiskey. Neat."

The bartender barely glanced at me before nodding. The glass hit the counter a second later. I wrapped my fingers around it, taking a slow sip, letting the burn ground me.

The moment he touched her, I had to remind myself why I was here.

Avery moved gracefully, following his lead, letting him twirl her. But I saw the moment he leaned too close, whispered something against her ear. His hand skimmed down, fingers pressing just a little too hard against her exposed thigh.

She let him.

She let him.

My grip tightened around my drink, the glass on the verge of shattering. Every nerve in my body screamed to move, to rip his hands off her, to remind him exactly who the fuck I was. But I stayed seated. Watching.

Then—

She tripped.

The bastard caught her, his hands steadying her waist. And just as he did, her hand slid down the front of his coat. Casual. Effortless. Too smooth to be an accident.

I smirked. Smart girl.

Once she was steady, her hands drifted to his back—too light, too fleeting. Just a brush before she pulled away, smiling up at him like nothing happened.

At least she learned something while being with me.

He smirked, said something.

Walked away.

A wink.

The fucking bastard winked at her.

Avery turned, slow and deliberate, sauntering toward me. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't just let a dead man walk out of here.

I leaned against the bar, swirling the whiskey in my glass, watching her.

She stopped in front of me, eyes glinting.

Her lips parted. "East wing. Last room at the end. At 11:30."

I glanced at my watch.

Ten minutes.

I knocked back the rest of my drink.

"Gun?"

She smirked. "Uh-huh. In his coat."

I exhaled, setting the empty glass down, standing to my full height. My muscles ached from restraint.

"Stay with the boys," I muttered. "It won't take long."

I shrugged off my coat, handed it to her.

Then I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, and walked out.

Cursing under my breath.

Because the last thing that bastard was going to do was walk away twice.

The hallway stretched long and dimly lit. Quiet. Isolated.

The last door at the end.

I knocked, once.

The door cracked open, just enough for a pair of eyes to peek through. Before he could react, my fist connected with his face. A sickening crunch followed as he stumbled back, hitting the floor hard.

Not Marcus.

One of his men.

Laughter rang from inside. Slow. Mocking.

"Ah, Rossi."

I stepped in, the door clicking shut behind me. Marcus sat in a plush armchair, legs crossed, a half-empty glass of bourbon in his hand. He smirked, swirling the liquor lazily.

"I was wondering when you'd come knocking. That little bitch sent you right on up, didn't she?"

I didn't react. Didn't flinch. I just stood there, watching him like I was deciding how many bones I'd break before I let him die.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You don't scare me, Rossi. You think just because you're the new Don, you can walk into my fucking business and dictate how I run things?"

He scoffed.

"You're a fucking joke. Just like your uncle. Just like your farth—"

I moved.

One second, he was talking. The next, his head snapped sideways as my fist cracked against his jaw.

He barely had time to recover before I hit him again.

And again.

The chair tipped over as he crashed to the floor. Blood smeared across his mouth, his breath coming out in sharp, ragged gasps. I grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him up just to send my knee slamming into his ribs. A strangled groan ripped from his throat.

"This for touching her," I muttered.

Another hit.

"This for thinking you could fucking talk about her."

I let him drop.

"And this?"

I crouched beside him, gripping his hair, forcing his bloody face up to mine.

"This is for Maria."

His eyes widened.

I drove my fist into his face one last time.

The door burst open.

Three of his men rushed in.

I was already pulling my gun.

The first bullet tore through the closest one's chest before he even lifted his weapon. The second man barely got a shot off before mine went clean through his skull. The third hesitated, realizing too late who the fuck he was dealing with.

I shot him between the eyes.

Silence.

The room reeked of blood and gunpowder. My heart pounded steady. Unshaken.

Marcus groaned, coughing as he tried to crawl away.

I straightened, adjusting my cufflinks, stepping over the bodies like they were nothing more than furniture in my way.

"You know," I murmured, pressing the barrel of my gun to his temple, "the only reason you're still breathing is because I should respect the ball's rule as a Don."

His body trembled. I could hear his breathing, shallow, desperate.

"But then again..." I tilted my head. "As a secret operative, I don't have rules."

I pressed the trigger.

The muffled gunshot echoed through the room.

Blood splattered across the floor.

I exhaled slowly, tucking my gun away and didn't look back.

Keeping my pace steady, controlled, I descended the staircase. The ballroom was still alive with laughter, music, and the stench of power-hungry men pretending to be civilized. My gaze swept the room until I found them.

Avery. The boys. And Thomas.

I moved toward them, my steps unhurried. The second I reached them, I leaned in, my voice low as I murmured something to Thomas. He gave a single nod before slipping away into the crowd.

Avery's sharp eyes tracked every movement.

Her voice was tense. "What was that about?"

I smirked. "Worried about me, piccola?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Rick."

I ignored the warning in her tone, my arm snaking around her waist as I pulled her flush against me. Her body tensed at first, but then she exhaled, the warmth of her breath ghosting over my collar.

"Relax," I murmured, my lips brushing her ear. "It's done."

Before she could say anything, Bryce let out a low whistle.

"Damn, boss. Maybe take her to a room first?"

Fred smirked. "Yeah, man, you're scaring the kids."

George chuckled.

I didn't acknowledge them. Didn't even look.

Avery tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip.

She huffed. "You're impossible."

I smirked, about to say something else—

Then the energy in the room shifted.

The music softened. The conversations dulled.

Like a storm rolling in, thick and suffocating.

I felt it before I even saw him.

The grand doors opened, and there he was.

Sergei.

For the first time since that night. Since the blood. Since the screams. My body went rigid.

Avery felt it instantly, her fingers brushing over mine. My grip on her waist tightened as I watched him enter. He walked in like he fucking owned the place—like he owned the world. Surrounded by men in sleek suits, their expressions carved from stone. The air changed, thick with tension and the unmistakable weight of power.

He moved with arrogance, his steps slow, measured. The way everyone turned to greet him, to praise him—it was fucking disgusting.

The bastard hadn't changed. If anything, he looked worse—colder. Time hadn't softened him; it had sharpened him. His suit was flawless, his dark hair slicked back, the scar on his jaw catching in the golden light. And his eyes—

Dead.

Empty.

The same eyes that had watched my family die.

A muscle ticked in my jaw.

He paused at the top of the staircase, scanning the room with a slow, deliberate gaze.

Then he spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what a magnificent evening. It is always a pleasure to be among such... esteemed company."

A few men chuckled. Others raised their glasses.

Sergei smiled. Cold. Amused.

"I must say, it warms my heart to see so many familiar faces. So many friends. So many... survivors."

His eyes glinted with cruel amusement.

"Because in our world, survival is not just a privilege. It's a skill. And those who fail to learn it?" He shrugged. "Well, they simply cease to exist."

Silence.

The weight of his words settled in the air like a noose.

Then his gaze shifted.

Landed.

On me.

And Avery.

His lips curved, but his expression was anything but kind.

"Ah," he mused. "Now there's a sight I was expecting so much tonight."

He ended his speech without another word, stepping down from the staircase.

And walked straight toward us.

I moved instantly, my body shifting to block Avery from his view. My arm pressed her behind me, my stance firm, unyielding.

Sergei stopped a few feet away, amusement flickering across his face.

His head tilted. "Protective, are we?"

I didn't speak. Didn't blink.

He stepped closer.

"You've just fucked up in a way you'll regret for the rest of your sorry existence. Did you think that burning a few of my warehouses makes you powerful? Makes you untouchable?"

I stayed silent.

His smile widened, but his eyes burned with hatred.

"I'm going to dismantle you, piece by fucking piece, and I won't stop until you're nothing but a broken, whimpering shell of a man. I'll make you feel every ounce of pain imaginable—physical, mental, emotional—until you're begging, crying, and pleading for a mercy that will never come. I'll destroy your sense of self, humiliate you in every way possible, and turn your life into a never-ending nightmare."

Avery stiffened behind me, but I didn't move.

"Every breath you take will be a reminder of how utterly powerless you are, and I'll relish in watching you break down."

A pause.

"And make no mistake, Rick," his voice dropped to a whisper, deadly and final.

"By the time I'm through, you'll be nothing more than a grim reminder of how fucking ruthless I can be. And this time—" he leaned in, just enough for only me to hear, "—I won't leave anyone behind."

My blood ran ice cold.

Then, his gaze flickered over my shoulder.

Straight to Avery.

His smirk deepened.

"Though, I must admit... you do have an eye for pretty little sluts, don't you? Hello, Avery. Or should I say... Gianna?"

I moved before I thought.

My forehead crashed into his, the sickening crunch of bone-on-bone echoing through the space.

Sergei stumbled back, a sharp curse ripping from his lips as blood trickled down his face. His men surged forward, hands reaching for weapons—

Then—

A gunshot.

The room froze.