Chapter 22
Carlo
“I told you to only do a bit, enough to make him accept any kind of help,” I groan into the phone. That old dick. “Look how much of a fucking mess you made him. Were you daring me, old man?”
I clench my jaw, staring at the lifeless body on the ground. My patience is thin, my blood boiling. I can barely contain the rage bubbling inside me.
A low chuckle comes from the other end of the line, followed by a tired sigh.
“Hey, you don’t talk to your grandfather in such a tone,” the old man responds coldly.
I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“What? No. I know my old man when I see him, and you’re nothing like that,” I shoot back, my voice firm.
“Rude bastard!” he curses.
I tighten my grip on the phone, my fingers twitching to throw it against the fucking wall.
“I won’t let this slide,” I warn, my tone dangerously low.
The old man clicks his tongue. “Hah! Those little jerks… Listen, I guess the people who were holding a grudge found a chance. He was still walking when he left my presence.”
Bullshit.
I glance down at him. Blaze isn’t fucking walking anywhere. He’s barely breathing. His face is swollen, his lip split, blood dripping down his temple. His whole body is fucked up.
“You better teach those idiots a lesson,” I say, my voice tight with anger.
I end the call before he can say anything else.
I turn to my secretary, my voice sharp. “Get the car.”
Without waiting for a response, I kneel beside Blaze, reaching out to touch his bruised face. His skin is warm, but his body is limp, like a rag doll.
Fuck.
I strip off my jacket and carefully place it over him before lifting him into my arms. His head falls against my shoulder, his weight pressing into me.
He’s so fucking light.
Too light.
I feel his shallow breaths against my neck, slow and uneven.
My chest tightens.
That old man was playing games with me.
I shove the thought aside and carry him to the car.
The driver holds the door open as I climb into the backseat, keeping Blaze on my lap.
The scent of blood fills the car, mixing with the lingering traces of his cologne. I brush his messy braids out of his face, my fingers grazing the smooth skin of his temple.
His hair was always so fucking perfect, neatly braided in the middle, the sides shaved clean.
But now—
It’s a fucking mess.
I run my thumb along the edge of his jaw.
Even like this, bruised and broken, he’s still sexy as fuck.
My teeth clench.
He did this to me.
Turned me into a fucking lunatic.
I don’t think I can take another night of jerking off to the thought of his perfect fucking face.
He needs to be mine. Right beside me.
I trail my fingers down to his cheek, pressing lightly. His body tenses, a small flinch escaping him.
I smirk.
Still conscious, huh?
Good. They know better than to say shit.
His breathing is shallow, his body feverish against mine.
Strong bastard.
Even in this state, I can tell he’s fighting the pain.
And fuck, I love the sight of him helpless in my arms.
I push the door open and step inside, walking straight to the bedroom. The room is cold, the air-conditioning running at full blast. I kick off my shoes and gently lay him on the bed.
His brows twitch, his face scrunching up slightly.
I sit on the edge of the bed, studying him.
His breathing is slow, but steady.
I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” I mutter under my breath.
A knock on the door pulls me out of my thoughts.
My secretary.
“Your flight will be in 30 minutes, sir.”
I let out a slow breath, standing up.
Right.
I have business to take care of.
But I’m not leaving until I make sure he’s safe.
“Inform the maid to take care of him before I get back,” I order. “And call the family doctor. I want him treated immediately.”
“Understood.”
I take one last look at Blaze before heading for the door.
The private jet lands smoothly on the tarmac, and I step off, adjusting my cufflinks as my secretary falls into step beside me. The night air is crisp, the lights of the city stretching far beyond the airport.
“Everything is in place for the auction, sir,” she informs me. “Your reserved seat is ready, and the piece you requested will be on display.”
“Good,” I say, sliding into the waiting car. “Let’s get this over with.”
The drive is silent, just the hum of the tires against the road. My mind drifts to Blaze—still unconscious, still weak. I should be focusing on the auction, but instead, all I can think about is him lying in my bed, his bruised face, his stubborn fucking attitude.
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders. I’ll deal with him when I get back.
For now, I have a painting to buy.
The auction is held at a high-end private gallery, the kind only the richest, most pretentious assholes have access to. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and the walls are lined with rare pieces, each carrying a price tag that could feed a small country.
I ignore the stares as I walk in. They all know who I am. Some whisper. Some watch with thinly veiled curiosity.
I don’t give a fuck.
I take my seat in the front row, my eyes already locked on the one piece I came for—a dark, chaotic painting, splashed with strokes of deep red and black, a violent display of emotion that reminds me of my own mind.
It’s not about art. It never is. It’s about power. About having what others want and making it mine.
The auctioneer starts. The bidding war begins.
“$200,000.”
“$250,000.”
“$300,000.”
The numbers climb, but I barely blink.
“$1.5 million,” I say lazily, swirling the whiskey in my glass.
A murmur ripples through the room.
Silence.
“Sold to CEO CARLO ,” the auctioneer announces, hammer falling.
Of course, I won.
I always win.
As the staff move to finalize my purchase, my secretary leans down. “Would you like the painting delivered to your estate?”
I smirk, taking a slow sip of my drink. “No,” I murmur, eyes darkening. “Have it sent to my penthouse.”
Where he is.
Because everything I want ends up in my possession.
And Blaze?
He’ll be no different.