Chapter 22: TWENTY-TWO
LUCA
The sky’s bleeding orange and crimson as the sun dips behind the Manhattan skyline, painting fire across the glass walls of the museum.
Shadows stretch long and lean over the stone steps, ushering in the first whispers of nightfall.
A cool breeze curls around us, laced with early evening chill. I help Sophia out of the car, my hand steady on her waist.
From ahead, the murmur of the upper crust filters toward us—soft laughter, clinking glasses, and the syrupy tones of privilege.
Inside, the museum is all gleaming marble and chandelier sparkle. The place hums with restrained elegance, but beneath the surface? A different kind of pulse.
One that’s sharp with politics, backroom whispers, and bank accounts thicker than morals.
Orchids spill out of silver vases. A quartet plays something expensive-sounding in the background.
The whole affair is dressed in velvet and pretense, dressed up as a fundraiser, but real money’s exchanging hands behind smiles and air kisses.
Beside me, Sophia’s jaw is tight. She’s trying to keep it together, but her arm has wrapped around herself like armor. I slide my fingers between hers, lean in close.
“Just stick close to me,” I murmur. “We won’t be long.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “Can you tell me now? Why we’re here?”
She’s holding herself stiff, fragile in a room built to swallow people like her whole.
I hate bringing her into this—but I need to keep eyes on the crowd, to find the bastard who moves in shadows and chaos: Briarwood.
“There’s someone I need to find,” I say. I don’t tell her the real reason. That if Briarwood showed, it’d keep him busy—leave Richard free to dig up the damn suitcase.
We drift into the throng. Tension hums through me, a livewire under the surface. Then—sharp and oily—a voice slices through the ambient noise.
“Look who’s here. The thug and his little side hustle,” someone sneers.
I freeze, turning. Not Briarwood. Worse. Michail.
He’s wearing a sharkskin suit and a look that makes my fists itch. Briarwood’s second. Cold-blooded, sadistic bastard. If Michail’s here, then Briarwood isn’t. Which means he’s a step ahead of me again.
I fire off a text with one hand, thumb flying across the screen, heart hammering.
Michail's already running his mouth again. “I expected better. Thought you’d have pulled someone hotter by now.”
The rage comes fast, unfiltered. My blood surges like it’s been waiting for this excuse. I take a step closer, my voice dropping.
“Apologize. Now.”
He laughs, too smug to recognize the mistake he’s just made. “What, you’re gonna punch me in front of all these rich fucks?”
Then Sophia’s voice cuts through.
“Michail Baranov,” she says sharply. “I knew I recognized your rat face. You’re the one who tried to take my sister.”
She moves toward him before I can stop her, fury driving her—then he shoves her back into me like she’s nothing.
“Keep your bitch on a leash, Luca,” he spits. “She know she’s not in charge here? This is a man’s world.”
My body moves before my brain does. I grab him by the collar, yank him in—and my fist smashes into his smug mouth with a crack that echoes across the marble hall.
He reels back, blood already pouring from his nose. For a second, there’s silence—then the crowd recoils, gasping, parting like we’re contagious.
Sophia’s hand grabs my arm. “We need to go. Now.”
I steady myself, brushing off my jacket as I turn to face her. “We leave when I say so,” I bite out, then glance back at Michail. “Your boss is playing you like a pawn,” I sneer. “And you’re too thick to realize it.”
He swipes the blood trickling from his nose, shooting daggers at me. “You’re insane, Luca. I can’t wait for him to bury you. You’ll be nothing but a stain under his shoe.”
Sophia’s tugging at my arm, trying to pull me away, but I’m rooted in place. “Tell your boss this—walk away now, and I’ll let him breathe.”
Michail snorts, a cold, mocking sound. “You seriously think we’re afraid? You Italians act like you run the city. You don’t. We do.”
“Luca,” Sophia urges, her voice tight. “People are staring.”
I glance around. Eyes are everywhere. Faces watching. Phones probably recording. “Let’s go,” she whispers, almost pleading.
I finally let her steer me toward the exit. One more second there and I would’ve put him in the ground—and that’s exactly what Briarwood wants. He wants me to take the bait. To lose control in front of witnesses. No mob boss gets away with daylight murder in a room full of suits and phones.
As we move away, Michail calls out behind us. “Guess we know who wears the pants in your little relationship! Got you by the balls, huh? Pussy’s got you on a leash!”
“Don’t react,” Sophia whispers. “I need to talk to you. Now.”
There’s something in her eyes. Urgency. Desperation. A silent warning. I follow, letting her lead me through the murmuring crowd. People part around us, whispering, speculating. I ignore them all.
“What the hell’s going on?” I mutter when we’re far enough from the ballroom.
She stops, spins to face me. Her voice drops low. “We’re being followed. And if we’re out of sight? You might be able to end this quietly.”
My lips twitch into a grim smile. “You’re more cut out for this life than you know.”
“I want him to pay,” she says. “For what he did to Tessa.”
“Justice or vengeance?”
She holds my gaze. “Didn’t someone smart once tell me they’re the same thing?”
I glance over my shoulder. A figure lingers just outside the glow of the hallway lights. He’s closing in.
“You know how I handle things,” I remind her. “There’s no courtroom in my version.”
“We tried the system,” she says, voice steady. “He bought his way out. Now I want him to suffer for it.”
I nod once. Message received.
As we drift deeper into the building, the crowd thins. Michail trails us like a dog with something to prove. I make a quick turn, shove open a maintenance door, and guide her into the narrow alley behind the venue. Cold. Quiet. Isolated. Perfect.
Seconds later, he steps out behind us, gun drawn—clearly expecting to catch us off guard.
He doesn’t.
I lunge, grabbing his arm and slamming it back, twisting until I hear a sickening snap. His scream bounces off the brick walls.
“Controlled by a woman?” I hiss, my breath hot against his ear. “You really thought you could disrespect my wife and walk away?”
He writhes in pain, gasping. “You’re making a mistake,” he chokes, looking past me to Sophia. “He’s starting a war. You’ll both be targets.”
Sophia steps in. Her voice is like ice. “This is for Tessa Graves. You remember her, don’t you? You tried to sell her like property. Walked free because of a payoff. Not tonight.”
“If you kill me,” he pants, “Briarwood will rain hell on you.”
I lean in close. “Only if he finds the body.”
One brutal punch and his knees give out. I catch him by the throat and—snap. Clean. Fast. His dead weight drops like a sack of garbage.
I drag him to the dumpster, lift the lid, and drop him in without ceremony. I slam it shut.
Sophia’s watching, her voice quiet. “What if someone finds him?”
“I can have a cleanup crew here in under ten. There's a place out in the Catskills—quiet, remote. By the time the sun rises, there’ll be nothing left but a rumor. As far as Briarwood knows, his guy vanished into thin air.”
I exhale sharply, turning to find Sophia watching me with unreadable eyes. The fire in me begins to cool, replaced by something quieter—weightier.
She steps in, closing the distance, and lifts her hands to my face like she’s trying to remind herself I’m real.
“You know,” she murmurs, her voice barely above the sound of her breathing, “maybe your world isn’t completely rotten.”
Then her lips meet mine—slow, steady, full of a strange kind of peace. Not relief. Not triumph. Just understanding.
Her kiss tastes like acceptance and fire and something dangerously close to devotion.
As I wrap my arms around her, grounding us both in this whirlwind, it hits me: this war I’ve been fighting alone—it’s not just mine anymore. Sophia isn’t a bystander.
She’s not just surviving in my chaos. She’s rewriting the rules with me. Her strength is quiet, but it cuts deep.
And now, we’re in this together. All the way.
Unbreakable.