Chapter 22 Ren
Ren
Once we return to the house, Rayhan is the one who starts talking. We leave Viktor Solkov chained to the chair at the torture house. Two guards stay behind to watch him.
The front door shuts behind us. The others disappear down the hallway without a word.
“I don’t think you want to get involved in the Captain’s family feud,” Rayhan says as he walks beside me. “You should let her deal with her own problems.”
I take off my gloves slowly. I don't look at him. I drop them on the console table by the entrance.
He keeps going. “I mean it, Ren. You’ll be putting a target on your back. Eventually they’ll find out you’re not Luca D’Angelo but Lorenzo Moretti and you’ll damn us all. You’ve done a good job evading the military for years. Your family has done a good job. Don’t ruin it because of some military pussy…”
My hand moves before my mind does.
My fist slams into his face.
The impact is solid. I feel his teeth cut my knuckles. His head jerks to the side and he stumbles back into the wall. Blood splatters across the marble floor.
The house goes completely silent.
“What the fuck, Ren?!” Rayhan hisses, holding his jaw. Blood drips between his fingers.
Even I do not fully understand why I react like that. I have lost my temper before. I have broken bones before. But I have never punched my Capo over a woman.
I step forward. My hands curl into fists again.
“Don’t you ever fucking speak that way about her,” I growl. My voice is low and steady. “You know nothing about her.”
Rayhan laughs, but it comes out strained. “Neither do you.” He wipes blood from his mouth and stares at me. “She’s the daughter of a fucking General. She’s a Captain who’s after your life. All our lives. You’re going to get us killed.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I say. “So shut your goddamn mouth.”
He spits blood onto the floor. “Are you sure? Do you really know what you’re doing? You went undercover to work alongside her. You raided a Russian mob warehouse. You almost got killed. Now you probably started something we can’t stop. All this for someone you barely know. Why are you so protective of someone who wants you dead?”
His words settle in the room.
He is right.
That is the problem.
I walk past him and into the living room. The lights are low. I sit down slowly and rest my elbows on my knees. My hands are still tight. My knuckles are already beginning to swell.
I stare at the floor.
Why am I protective of her?
I replay every moment with her in my head. The way she looks at me like she is trying to read through my skin. The way she does not back down when someone challenges her. The way she keeps pushing even when she is exhausted.
She is not weak and he is not stupid.
And she is walking straight into something bigger than she understands.
Rayhan walks in after me. He drops into the armchair across from me. He winces as he presses a cloth against his lip.
“You hit hard,” he mutters.
“You talk too much,” I reply.
He gives me a dry look. “That’s my job. Someone has to think when you stop.”
I lean back slowly. I force myself to breathe evenly. I cannot afford to lose control. Not now. Not with everything balancing on a knife’s edge.
“I didn't go undercover for her,” I say. “I went undercover because we needed information. The warehouse raid gave us leverage. Solkov is leverage.”
Rayhan tilts his head. “And she?”
“She is… useful.”
He lets out a short laugh. “Useful. That’s what we are calling it now?”
I glare at him. He raises one hand slightly in surrender.
“I am serious,” he says. “You are not thinking clearly when it comes to her.”
“I am thinking very clearly.”
He shakes his head. “Then answer the question. Why do you care what happens to her?”
I don't respond immediately.
Because I see something in her that reminds me of myself.
Because she walks into danger with her head high even when she should run.
Because when she looks at me, I almost forget who I am supposed to be.
But I don't say any of that. Definitely not.
Instead, I stand up. I walk to the bar and pour myself a drink. The liquid burns as it goes down my throat. It does nothing to calm the noise in my head.
“She is part of the equation,” I say finally. “If her family is involved in something bigger, that affects us. I need to know what she knows. I need to know what her father is planning. That is all.”
Rayhan studies me carefully. He has known me long enough to see through lies.
“And punching me helps with that how?” he asks.
“It helps you remember your place.”
His jaw tightens. For a second, I think he might stand up and swing back. But he does not. He exhales slowly instead.
“You're playing a dangerous game, Ren.” he says. “You built Luca D’Angelo piece by piece. One mistake and it all collapses. If she finds out who you really are, she will not hesitate to put a bullet through your eyes.”
I know that.
I have known that from the beginning.
Every time she stands too close. Every time her eyes linger on mine for a second too long. Every time she asks a question hits so close to home.
If she learns I am Lorenzo Moretti, she will not protect me. She will not hesitate. She will pull the trigger herself.
The thought should not bother me.
But it does.
Rayhan leans forward. “You have never mixed business with emotion. Not once. Why start now?”
“I'm not mixing anything.” I snap, already getting tired of the conversation
“Ren.”
His voice is calmer now. Less angry. More concerned. That just annoys me more.
I finish my drink and set the glass down harder than necessary.
“I will handle her,” I say. “And I will handle whatever comes from this. You just focus on Solkov. I want him awake in two hours. I want names. I want routes. I want every piece of information he has.”
Rayhan nods slowly. “Fine.”
He stands up and pauses at the doorway.
“But if this blows back on us,” he says quietly, “I will not hesitate to do what needs to be done. Even if you don’t like it.”
I meet his eyes.
“Do not threaten me in my own house.”
“It’s not a threat,” he replies. “It’s a warning.”
He walks out.
The house falls silent again.
I stay where I am for a long time. I stare at my bruised knuckles. I flex my hand slowly. Pain shoots through my fingers.
I have never lost control like that.
What is wrong with me?
I walk upstairs and into my office. I close the door behind me. The room smells of leather and paper. The desk is covered in files. Photos. Maps. Names.
Her name is on one of those files.
I sit down and open it.
Her picture stares back at me. Uniform sharp. Eyes steady. No fear in them.
You should let her deal with her own problems.
Rayhan’s voice echoes in my head.
I lean back in my chair.
If I step back now, she will walk into whatever her family is hiding without knowing the full truth. She will trust the wrong person. She will believe she is in control.
And control is an illusion.
I know that better than anyone.
I close the file slowly.
This is not about desire. It is not about weakness. It is about leverage. About staying two steps ahead.
At least that is what I tell myself.
But when I picture her standing alone, facing something she cannot see coming, my chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with strategy.
I stand up and walk to the window. The city lights stretch out below.
Everything looks stable from a distance and quiet.
The phone buzzes on the desk. I glance at it and see Sophia’s name. I already know what this will be.
“Ren, where are you? I’ve been waiting for you all day. I miss you. I can’t stop thinking about you. You haven’t had time for me in forever and I…” Her voice rises, impatient and insistent, as though the world has ended simply because I am not immediately available. “I’m so horny, Ren. I need you. I want you. You have no idea how much I need you right now. You can’t just disappear and ignore me.”
I stare at the screen and feel my chest tighten. My hand wraps around the phone, my fingers clenching. The noise is unbearable. I lift the phone and hang up. No words, no explanations, no patience for her whining.
It rings again almost immediately. Of course it does. She never gives up.
I hang up again.
And again.
I block her number. That solves it for now. I will unblock her when I am ready to listen to her complaints and demands. For now, I do not want to hear them. I tolerate her because I have to, because my father chose her as my betrothed and because she is the daughter of his right-hand man. Nothing else. I do not care for her, and I never will.
I settle back into my chair, my eyes fixed on the city lights outside my office window. The streets glow below like veins of electricity threading through the city. The calm is deceptive. The city will continue its rhythm while my life, and hers, balance on decisions I make in this quiet room.
I pick up my phone again and dial Matteo’s number. Nothing. He doesn't pick. It rings and rings until the automated voice speaks, telling me to leave a voice message. I end the call. Weird.
Matteo always answers. He always picks up. The silence makes my eyebrow lift. He never goes silent like this unless something is happening. Perhaps the Captain is giving him a harder time today than usual. She can be relentless and a handful. That is her strength and definitely her curse. He will call back when he can. I know he will. I am not worried about him. Matteo can handle himself.
I pour a glass of whiskey and take a long sip. The burn down my throat focuses me, even if it does nothing to soothe the tension pressing in my chest. I flex my hands and feel the slow sting of bruises from Rayhan’s teeth cutting into my knuckles. I should have known better, but I did not care then. I still do not care.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the desk. Maps, files, photographs, names. Her name is there more than once. Amelia Russo. Captain Russo. Dangerous. Calculated. Perfectly controlled, as much as a human can be. Still, there is a vulnerability hidden beneath the surface. Something I notice and something I recognize.
I make my way down the stairs, boots silent on the marble. My men are gathered in the main hall, some leaning against walls, others checking screens or reviewing documents. Their eyes lift as I enter.
Marco notices first. “Ren, you look like someone just handed you a plate of shit and you’re expected to smile.”
I pause and stare at him. “Sophia called,” I say. “She whined the entire time. She’s insufferable. And Matteo isn’t picking up.”
A shrug goes around the room. Enzo smirks. “Sophia? The same girl who called you last week, last month, and last year, whining about the same things? Big deal. Matteo will call when he can. Always does.”
I narrow my eyes. “You think it’s a joke?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Not a joke. Just… It's Matteo. If he’s unreachable, it’s nothing to panic over.”
I grit my teeth. “You do realize she’s my betrothed?”
“Yeah, we know,” Marco says. “That doesn’t make her less irritating.”
I let the sarcasm pass. There is no point arguing. My focus should be elsewhere. “Keep your eyes open. Check every channel. Watch the usual suspects. I want reports every hour.”
Enzo leans back, smirking. “Relax, boss. Nothing’s going to happen. Matteo can handle himself. He always does.”
I stare at him, my hands clenched. “And if something happens?”
He shrugs. “Then we deal with it.”
I leave it at that. Their confidence in Matteo is unshakable. It is both reassuring and infuriating. I am used to relying on them, but Matteo operates differently. He doesn't need anyone to worry about him. That is both his strength and also his weakness. He thinks he's invisible, made of steel and bullet proof. One of these days, he's going to get himself killed, for sure.
I move past them and walk to the large windows that overlook the city. I pour another drink. I watch the lights stretch across the streets. Everything looks stable from up here.
Matteo’s absence gnaws at me in a different way. I know he is capable, but not even a word from him leaves a void I cannot ignore. I consider all possibilities. Perhaps Russo is being difficult, perhaps something else is happening. I am not used to waiting. I hate waiting and being left in the dark.
I turn back to the room. My men are scattered now, moving to their posts, carrying out the routine checks I commanded.
Time passes slowly. I move through it with precision. Drinks, steps, glances at the screens, commands whispered into earpieces. Forty-five minutes tick by. Matteo still does not call.
Then the phone vibrates. I grab it immediately. Matteo.
“Ren,” he says, voice tight, serious and breathless like he has been running. “She’s not at the hospital. Amelia is gone. Nobody knows where. She’s missing.”