Chapter 17
Emily Windsor's POV
"Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. I'll be waiting downstairs." He dropped those words like stones and turned back toward his office, retreating into the amber glow of his desk lamp. All I got was the cold, resolute line of his shoulders disappearing into shadow.
I practically fled that suffocating building.
The night air hit my face like ice water, and I realized my back was drenched in cold sweat.
Sitting in my car, I stared at my pale reflection in the rearview mirror, heart still hammering out of control.
Luke was like a whirlpool—calculated, relentless—pulling me deeper, stripping away every defense I'd built, piece by piece.
He'd peeled back the bloodiest, most contradictory parts of himself and laid them bare before me. But even that felt like another form of control.
The next morning, I drove to an old neighborhood in Brooklyn.
It was a world away from my Upper East Side apartment. Red-brick buildings with peeling paint, graffiti covering every available surface, the air thick with the smell of baking bread mixed with the grit of urban life.
I didn't go to meet Luke.
Instead, I'd pulled an address from the foundation records—one of the payment recipients—and found my way here.
When I knocked, I told the woman who answered that I was from a social services agency conducting routine family follow-ups.
The door opened to reveal an elderly woman with silver hair, wearing a faded floral apron. Her face was lined with age, but her eyes were warm and kind.
After I showed her my credentials, she invited me in without hesitation.
The apartment was small but immaculate. Potted geraniums bloomed on the windowsill, sunlight streaming through spotless glass and pooling in soft patches across the floor.
"Have some tea, dear." She set a steaming cup in front of me and settled onto the worn sofa across from mine, smiling. "It's been ages since a young woman like you came around here."
I thanked her, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic, and dove in. "Ma'am, I wanted to check in—how are you finding the support from the Dawn Charity Foundation? Any issues we should know about?"
At the mention of Dawn Charity Foundation, her expression softened into something almost reverential.
"Oh, wonderful. Just wonderful." She clasped her hands over her chest, eyes glistening. "Without them, I don't know how I would've survived."
Her husband had been a dock worker. Ten years ago, he was caught in the crossfire of a gang war—killed instantly by a stray bullet. Her only son had tried to shield his father and was shot in the leg, left permanently disabled. Their family's foundation crumbled overnight.
"When I was at my lowest, someone from the foundation found me," she continued, voice trembling with memory. "They covered all the medical bills. And every month since then—ten years—they've sent money for me and my boy. Never missed a payment."
My chest tightened. I gripped the teacup harder.
"Did anyone… from the foundation ever visit you?" I asked, keeping my tone casual.
"Once. Years ago." She stood and walked to an old dresser, carefully pulling a faded photograph from behind a picture frame. "This young man came by."
She handed it to me.
My breath caught.
In the photo, a younger Luke sat beside a narrow hospital bed, peeling an apple with quiet focus. He looked different—softer, less guarded. His features still sharp, but there was something unformed about him, a vulnerability in the set of his jaw. He wore a simple dark sweater. Sunlight poured through the window behind him, casting a golden halo around his figure. Beside him, a boy with a bandaged leg gazed up at him with wide, trusting eyes.
This wasn't the Luke I knew.
No cold stare. No aura of menace. Just a young man peeling fruit for an injured kid.
"He was such a good boy," the woman said softly, a trace of sadness in her voice. "So handsome, and so kind-hearted. But… he looked so lonely. He stayed with my son for hours, even brought him the newest game console. Still, I could tell he wasn't happy."
I traced my thumb over the edge of the photograph, something cracking open inside me.
I understood then—Luke hadn't inherited his position as Don of the Victor family. He'd carved it out with blood and fire.
To secure his place, to cut away the rot at the family's core, he must have killed without hesitation.
But he'd kept a piece of himself intact. Hidden. A sliver of conscience buried deep beneath the violence, funding broken families through a shadow foundation they'd never know belonged to him.
He wasn't purely evil. He wasn't pretending to be good, either.
He was a man drowning in darkness, one hand covered in blood, the other clinging stubbornly to a flicker of light.
And in that moment, the wall I'd built around my heart came crashing down.
I wasn't just using him anymore. And he wasn't just manipulating me.
I was curious about him. Drawn to him. And worse—something in me ached for him.
I handed the photo back and stayed a little longer, chatting with her before finally excusing myself.
Outside, the sunlight was blinding. I stood on the curb, staring at the street teeming with ordinary life, my thoughts spinning wildly.
'Who are you really, Luke?'
'And how the hell am I supposed to deal with you now?'
A sleek black Maybach pulled up silently beside me. The window lowered, revealing Luke's maddeningly perfect face.
"Ready to come with me now?" His voice was flat, almost indifferent.
I stared at him for a long moment.
Then I opened the door and slid inside.
The interior was intimate, suffocating. Luke's scent—cold cedar and cigar smoke—wrapped around me like a trap. I sat rigid, staring straight ahead, unable to relax.
"Enjoy your little field trip to Brooklyn?" he asked, voice betraying nothing.
My pulse spiked. I gripped my purse tighter but didn't look at him. "Just taking a walk."
"Quite the coincidence, Miss Windsor," he drawled, a edge of mockery creeping in. "You have impeccable taste in neighborhoods."
I turned to face him, meeting those ice-blue eyes head-on. They were glacial, unreadable. "You wanted me to see your world, didn't you? I figured I'd get a closer look myself."