The Counterfeit Lover (War of Sins Book 3)

‘You let him go again,’ Andreas noted. He was sitting by the window, waiting for his boss.

Michele strode forward, his towel in his hand as he wiped at his wet locks.

‘I never intended to catch him in the first place,’ he replied dryly, stopping next to his friend.

Andreas removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering Michele one and lighting it for him.

‘Then? Sometimes you confuse me, sir,’ Andreas stated, his brows scrunched together as he regarded Michele closely—almost as if that alone could reveal all his deepest secrets.

Michele’s shrewd gaze assessed his surroundings, noting that Andreas had built an entire area for the dog, with toys, food, and a wide variety of soft pillows on which he could sleep.

Noelle had called him Lovely. To an extent, he supposed the name fit, since the dog was awfully endearing even to his jaded eyes. He was nestled between the fluffy pillows, sleeping peacefully as if he had no care in the world.

‘Do I?’ Michele smiled, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. His gaze swung to the blinding city lights and the breathtaking view from his penthouse.

He confused himself, too.

He was on top of the world, literally and figuratively. He was where he’d set out to be from the beginning, and with each step he took, he was closer to his ultimate revenge—that last blow that would leave the entire world reeling.

Yet why did he feel so restless? Why did his frustration mount when it was supposed to be the opposite? There was no thrill to be had—at anything. Even the blood staining his hands—the blood that in the past would have made his heart race—was now an irrelevant substance that brought neither joy nor satisfaction.

It simply made him…numb.

But that was the root of the issue.

He felt too fucking numb.

Ever since…

A scowl marred his features when he thought about that. Until now he’d done his best to cast away all thoughts of his pet—she was never to be thought of again.

Easier said than done when she was the only thing seemingly bringing some type of color into his world—any type of thrill.

Maybe he’d finally become too jaded. He begrudgingly had to agree that he’d been through so much in the last decade that nothing could faze him anymore. Nothing could surprise him, nor entertain him.

He was a weary traveler at the middle of the journey. And that was unacceptable.

From the beginning, he’d known that his will was the only thing holding this together—holding everything around him together.

While his soul had died with his son, his body was still alive and thriving—to Michele’s greatest dismay.

But because he had not been afforded death when he’d most wished for it, he’d resolved to see everything to the end—pay back every single person in his life who’d had a hand in his hellish existence.

Seeing the direction of his thoughts, he realized he was more adrift than he’d imagined. And that only made him want to reinforce his own boundaries, fortify his mind and will against all outside interferences.

He needed to focus on the only thing that mattered.

Revenge. Against Lastra. Against McBride. Against the entire fucking corrupt system that had failed his son.

The first was done. Though there had been a moment when his resolve had been tested, he’d prevailed in face of temptation and he’d pushed through, achieving what he’d set out to do—the ruination of the Lastra family.

As such, there were only two goals left pending.

And with a hidden sigh of relief, he confirmed to himself that his brother had never been his true target. From the beginning, he’d never been at the front of Michele’s plans and hunger for revenge. Admittedly, Rafaelo’s death would never assuage any such appetite. If anything, it could further interfere with his mindset—the last thing he needed when he was already teetering on the edge of hesitation, ready to fall into an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.

‘I merely wanted to play with him a little. Poke and see if it hurts,’ Michele eventually added, imbuing some levity into his tone to compensate for the heavy weight of his thoughts.

‘And?’

‘It hurts,’ Michele stated in a deadpan voice.

‘I just don’t understand. You could have killed him. You could have let him die in the explosion but…’

‘But I didn’t,’ Michele filled the words in. ‘That’s never been the goal, Andreas.’

‘Then why? Why go through so much trouble?’ his friend frowned.

‘Because,’ Michele cleared his voice, a twitch in his cheek. ‘The moment they realized Pancho was feeding me information they would have found out that I am still alive. By going after Noelle first, I didn’t leave the ball in their court for the next movement.’

Andreas nodded thoughtfully.

‘And the other woman?’

‘Lucero turned out to be the most pleasant surprise of all,’ his lips curled up. ‘I never anticipated the truth would be so perverted.’

‘Perverted?’ Andreas blinked.

‘You remember my brother was sold to a locale in Mexico after Armand died,’ Michele gazed down at Andreas.

‘Yes. It was odd that he ended up there since I specified no international sales,’ Andreas frowned.

‘You see,’ Michele turned, bringing his cigarette to his lips. ‘Noelle, Rafaelo’s current wife, was the one who bought him.’

‘No…’ Andreas blinked.

‘Lucero was her maid. The maid who knew all her secrets.’

‘And you used that against her,’ Andreas smartly appraised.

Michele let his lips widen into a telling smile, but he didn’t expand on the subject. Not that he didn’t trust Andreas—he trusted him above all. It was just that he didn’t know yet what he was going to do with the information he’d obtained.

He hadn’t lied when he told Andreas that he never intended to catch Rafaelo.

Maybe in the beginning he’d been pissed about his brother’s stupid show of bravery and blatant disregard of Michele’s wishes. At that time, he’d impulsively sought out Ortega to wipe out Rafaelo’s associates so he could remain alone and helpless—perfect for Michele to swoop in and deliver the last blow.

Yet, with each encounter, he realized his desire to see his brother pay had waned to something…indecipherable.

He was still mad at Rafaelo for what had happened in their youths. That kind of hurt never disappeared, and Michele had done a perfect job of locking all his grudges in one box, using them as fuel whenever it suited him—whenever he needed a little push.

And it had worked.

For a while, he’d been one with his grudges. One with his revenge.

Yet recently, his motivation had been a little sluggish.

He blamed it on the fact that deep down he still harbored some kind of affection for his brother. An affection that had, against all odds, survived all the horrors he’d been through.

He’d never thought it possible, but he supposed time had a way of scarring even the ugliest wounds to something…acceptable. And that’s what had happened with him and Rafaelo.

After the initial sea of hurt had worn off, he could see more clearly that there were more factors at play for his brother’s perceived betrayal. Now that over a decade had passed, he could judge those situations with more objectivity—an objectivity that had been missing when he’d been in the true throes of madness.

He supposed he was still suffering some effects of that madness—small, deadly tendrils still maintaining their hold of him even as he’d shrugged others off. But he was also smart enough to realize that acting in such anger would never bring him any good results.

Michele had only look at the past and how he’d acted after Nicolo and Cami’s deaths. Back then, he’d been seething with so much hurt and anger at the world that he’d struck when he shouldn’t have. He’d let his emotions cloud his judgement and he’d attempted to get everything at once.

And that never worked.

No, patience was the key.

Yet he’d only learned that through heartbreaking experience. One that had seared itself on his being and told him he deserved nothing less than an empty life and the numbness currently suffusing his being for failing his son. Because if one removed the anger and all the vows of retribution Michele had sworn on his death-bed, only guilt remained.

Guilt and so much self-loathing that sometimes he could barely function under its weight.

Then, he’d acted in haste, thinking himself smarter than all, and he’d paid the biggest price.

His son’s life.

And it had been Michele’s fault. If he had been more careful. If he’d made more subtle inquiries. And if he’d done things gradually instead of all at once, maybe Solomon wouldn’t be dead now. Maybe he would still be by Michele’s side, saving him every day from his dark thoughts and even darker fate.

But he wasn’t. And that also meant Michele had given himself over to that obscure part within himself, selling what was left of his soul for his much sought-after revenge.

Trial and error and here he was. Years and small steps that would lead to a culmination of death and horror.

He was no longer in a hurry. In fact, after killing Cosima and Benedicto and selling Rafaelo, he’d found that his urgency had waned to a simple pulsation beneath his skin—enough that it always reminded him of his goals but not enough to take over his mind in another show of pure madness.

‘So that’s it? You’re letting them go? For good?’ Andreas’ question startled him from his thoughts.

He spared his right-hand man a glance, narrowing his eyes at him.

‘Mayhap,’ he answered noncommittally, taking one last drag off his cigarette before putting it out and walking away.

Andreas swallowed uncomfortably, his eyes on Michele’s back as he tried to understand his boss. Once more, he thought he spotted a glimmer of the old Michele, but he could never be sure with how ambiguous Michele was in his answers.

He could recite strategical plans all day long and not pause once, but when it came to things of a more…sentimental nature, one could never pry anything from his lips.

Yet Andreas had one more hope—little as it was.

Venezia Lastra.

The woman who’d put Michele in a monstrous mood ever since he’s stopped seeing her a while back.

Maybe it was too optimistic of him to hope his boss would reconsider his plans and allow Miss Venezia in his life. But Michele’s behavior regarding her had been anything but carefully rehearsed and planned—completely antithetic to how Michele usually operated.

And that told him not everything was lost.

Yet.

Back in his room, Michele shrugged the bathrobe off his body before he donned on a pair of silk pajama bottoms. Threading his fingers through his thick locks, he stopped dead in his tracks as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror across from the room.

His lip twitched in displeasure.

There were moments, like the one at hand, when Michele simply abhorred his reflection in the mirror for it was a mosaic of his past. Every scar had a hidden meaning. Every mark on his skin spoke not only of physical pain, but of soul-wrenching anguish that still haunted him.

Yet as his eyes drifted up his naked torso, ignoring his many scars, they landed on his face.

The most cursed of all.

He took a step closer, and tilting his head to the side, he simply watched himself.

Silence surrounded him like a comforting cocoon. Slowly, even the sound of his own breaths became muted as he immersed himself in what he was seeing—what he abhorred above all.

‘We’re the same,’ a soft voice resounded amid the weeping silence, obliterating the serene atmosphere. ‘There’s a void inside here that only you can fill. Just like there’s a void inside here that only I can fill,” the voice continued, seducing, hypnotizing.

With an audible snarl, he flung his fist at the mirror, shattering it and turning it into a myriad of shards, all reflecting back his distorted image—just as the sound became distorted in his ears.

‘We’re the same…’

‘No,’ he gritted his teeth. ‘We’re not the same. We’re nothing alike. I don’t need you!’ He was breathing heavily, blood pouring down his knuckles as he yelled at the mirror.

And he didn’t.

She was as expendable in his life like everything before her—like everything that would follow her.

And he’d proved it to himself by committing the worst of crimes.

Theoretically, she should have left his thoughts just as she’d left his home—taking with her any possibility of him ever going back on his word.

But she hadn’t.

To Michele’s great dismay and even greater displeasure, she hadn’t left.

She was still there, in the back of his mind, waiting, haunting.

She looked for the moment when he had his guard down and she invaded every crevice of his mind, showing him all the possibilities—all the unfulfilled possibilities.

But he’d been strong.

In front of all temptation, he’d been a pillar of strength.

Yet as his gaze dipped to his bleeding hand, he couldn’t help but recall her blood.

Their blood.

The day she’d left had been the day he’d buried that pendant somewhere deep in the woods just outside of the city. He’d been so enraged with her—with the way she dared defy him—that he hadn’t wanted anything to remind him of her.

Anything.

The madness had seeped in at that point, those seductive tendrils coiling around him and whispering things in his ears.

Things that would make a saint weep.

Things that had shred the last bit of control Michele possessed.

And in an episode of pure insanity, he’d gone on a rampage. Andreas, knowing the signs, had simply guided Michele towards a group of men who’d recently been exonerated in a murder case, though the evidence against them had been strong. Knowing his boss’ penchant for mayhem, Andreas was always ready to provide an outlet for his anger.

Somewhere at the outskirts of the city, Michele had lured the men with the prospect of debauchery under the moonlight before he’d painted himself red in their blood.

From head to toe. Red.

It still hadn’t been enough. So lost to his madness he’d been that he’d ripped at his own self, clawing at his skin until his hands had bumped into the pendant.

That cursed pendant. Cursed because it housed that which he desired the most, yet could never have. Not while it was either her or what little was left of his damned self. Cursed because it embodied her, him, them. Cursed because she fucking haunted his mind, never letting him be for one moment.

He’d pulled at the string, breaking it and throwing it to the ground next to the dead bodies. But as he’d set to leave, its allure was still too strong. Her voice was still too strong.

It whispered in his ear, detailing all that could happen should he let himself go—should he let himself feel the impossible. It soothed and calmed the beast, but it also awoke it anew with the false hopes and dashed dreams.

Halfway through the woods and he’d come back, grabbing the necklace again, squeezing it into his fist as if, by chance, he could absorb its essence. Then, he’d dug a hole in the ground with his bare fingers, pushing what was left of their union deeper and deeper—so deep it would never see the light of the day again.

And it hadn’t.

It was still there.

Yet he was here, and she was…

Scowling at himself, Michele went to his cabinet, opening it and getting some gauze and disinfectant to treat his wound.

But even something as mundane as applying the stinging solution to his open flesh reminded him of tender touches—of someone who’d been far gentler with him than anyone had ever been.

He quickly patched himself up before he grabbed a book to read before bed.

Yet even as he laid himself comfortable in his king-sized bed, even as he felt the luxurious sheets against his skin, and even as he made one last attempt to focus on the contents of the book, he couldn’t.

He couldn’t fucking do anything. And it was all because of her.

Because of those whispers that sought to drive him insane.

‘Fucking hell,’ he yelled, throwing the book to the side and bringing his fingers to his temples, massaging them in an attempt to assuage the tension inside.

One second. Two. Three.

That was how long his resolved lasted. But he couldn’t admit it to himself.

In his mind, this was just his intrinsic curiosity and making sure everything was going according to plan—that his pet had gotten her due just like everyone else in that accursed family.

Swinging his long legs over the bed, he grabbed his laptop from his desk before making himself comfortable once again.

Already, something was simmering inside of him—anticipation, excitement, he couldn’t tell. But to lie to himself further, he convinced himself this was just another detail in the grand scheme of things.

After he’d released the video of his pet on her knees, he’d had Andreas monitor the situation and give him a full report on how everything had gone.

Andreas, ever the dutiful worker, had compiled an entire folder of evidence.

Of course, Michele had done his best to forget about its existence. But still, here he was.

His pulse quickened, a thrill going down his spine.

Opening the folder, Michele’s brows shot up as he realized it had an entire compilation of video footage. But of what?

He clicked through a few videos, not seeing anything of importance at first. It looked to be the surveillance footage from her high school. In fact, he was about to click out of the video before he saw it.

He saw her.

Head bent low, she headed to her locker, fumbling with her combination before opening it to see her entire compartment filled with disgusting stuff. Even from the angle of the camera Michele could tell what some of it was.

His blood boiled.

Then came the boys. The name-calling, dared-to-touch-what-was-not-theirs boys.

His head throbbed. Especially as he heard what obscenities they were shouting at his pet.

But that made him pause.

Hadn’t he expected that would happen? That she would become even more of a pariah at her school?

The answer came a resounding yes. But in his utopian world where everything happened just as he dictated, he imagined she would never dare show her face to school again after she found out about the video. He’d thought she would just isolate herself from the world and never show her face again.

He definitely didn’t think she would ever lift her chin up, quiet pride shining in her eyes as she decked one of the boys with the locker’s door.

Again and again.

She didn’t stop.

She was a wildcat playing, finally getting to her prey.

And by God, Michele’s lips twitched with pleasure as he saw her like that—uninhibited, raw, real.

That was what he’d wanted from her, from the very beginning.

And here she was, giving it to some puny boy.

He saw red. Correction. Red turned to black.

He saw pure black. Pitch black. Obsidian black.

The laptop ended up a pile of broken metal on the ground.

In no time at all, Michele put on his clothes and exited his room.

‘Andreas!’ He shouted, and Andreas immediately showed up. ‘I want their names. Each one of their names. Now.’

He didn’t have to tell him what names, for Andreas was already prepared. Excitement simmered through him when he realized his boss had finally given in—a little later than he’d expected, but he’d given in and watched those videos. He’d known Michele would never stand still if he saw someone else touch Miss Venezia, and he’d been right.

‘Here, sir. I have an entire list, their addresses and the places they like to frequent. As a matter of fact, this being a Friday night, they are probably at this location,’ Andreas pointed to the bar written on the note.

‘Good. Are you coming with?’ Michele barely spared him a glance, already getting ready to head out.

Andreas smiled and followed along.

Jumping in the car, Michele pulled it out of the parking lot and drove straight for the bar. In a matter of minutes they were there.

‘Good job, Andreas,’ Michele nodded at him as he spotted the bullies. ‘Make sure the cameras are covered.’

A perpetual smile on his face, Andreas couldn’t help the glee that overtook him at seeing Michele react.

Finally.

‘Hullo, boys,’ Michele whistled as he strode to the table currently occupied by three high schoolers.

‘Who the hell are you?’ One of them asked, just as the others turned their attention to him.

Michele took a moment to study them, his lip twitching in distaste.

These. These motherfuckers had dared touch her—had dare put her name in the same sentence with all types of illicit acts.

‘You’re from Trinity High, aren’t you?’ He let his lips curl up in a pleasant smile.

‘So?’ One asked—another, braver seemingly.

‘Nah, nothing. Just that I heard about that girl at your school,’ he leaned back, feigning a relaxed stance when on the inside he could barely wait to get his hands on them. ‘The one in the video.’

‘Oh that one,’ they laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you want your turn, too?’

‘And if I do?’ He raised a brow.

‘Steven here had the chance to tap and…’

That was enough for Michele’s already strenuous control to snap—truly snap.

His hand shot out, and grabbing the boy’s collar, he dragged him over the table.

The bar went quiet.

Andreas was quick at work in the background, dealing with the owner and getting everyone else to leave before it got worse. But a bribe here, a bribe there and the promise to pay for anything broken and Michele had full control of the bar.

‘Wh-what?’

‘You had the chance to tap that?’ Michele asked, his words slow and oh, so sinister, they immediately instilled the fear in all the boys.

“N-no. He lied. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. Please let me go,’ he said, his lips trembling with fear as he looked over to his friends, nodding at them to corroborate his story.

‘It’s true. She hit him for even implying that and…’

‘Enough,’ Michele’s voice boomed in the suddenly quiet bar.

Everyone was quiet. Still, and quiet.

‘You touched her. You put your fucking hands on her and you dared to put her name in the same sentence with what your whores do. That’s enough for me,’ Michele smiled, a wolfish smile that should have clued everyone in that this was just the beginning.

And indeed, it was.

Grabbing the neck of a bottle, he broke it in half before bringing the edge to the boy’s cheek, cutting deep.

‘Let’s see how you’re going to get your cock sucked from now on looking like a fucking circus,’ Michele spat.

The boy cried in pain, struggling in his hold and trying to land a few punches on him. All in vain as Michele subdued him, and upon finishing with his art, he brought his elbow to his chest, knocking the wind out of him before throwing him to the ground.

The other two were desperately trying to run away, but the exits were locked.

Andreas was to the side, holding one by his nape and the other around his throat.

‘Gimme,’ Michele motioned with his finger.

Andreas threw him one of the boys, still holding on to the other.

Michele’s mind slipped from him until only violence remained. Violence and a sweet, soothing voice echoing in his ear. The only tether he had left to normality.

He punched and kicked and beat the shit out of each boy until they had no other choice but to pass out from the pain.

Only then did he stop. When they were all moaning on the ground until even their voices left them.

Getting a cigarette from his pack, he lit it up and slipped it between his lips. Smiling, he took a deep drag as he stretched his limbs.

‘That felt good,’ he breathed out, closing his eyes and grounding himself.

Still, his ears were full of her sound. Only her.

It was such an intoxicating sound that he felt himself get drunk on mere whispers alone. So close he could imagine her…

His eyes snapped open, and turning to the side, he caught Andreas’ amused gaze.

‘Who’s next? Who else did you add to the list?’

‘There were a few teachers who made fun of her and the principal,’ Andreas went on to explain that the principal had sided with the boys before Venezia’s sister and her husband had paid him a visit. ‘There are only a couple of days left until graduation and he hasn’t issued any apology,’ Andreas continued, enjoying the way Michele’s features contorted with rage.

‘Address?’ he demanded in a clipped tone.

‘Here,’ Andreas complied, giving him the list of adults who’d dared mock his pet.

That night, he paid a visit to each and every one of them, giving them a true definition of the word nightmare and getting their vow that they would publicly apologize to his pet.

The best, he saved for last—the principal.

In his frenzy, he’d destroyed his laptop before he could get a glimpse of the principal’s behavior, but Andreas, ever so resourceful, had a spare copy that he played for Michele. In it he could clearly see how the principal had insulted her, going as far as to insinuate she was a whore.

And as they reached the principal’s home, Michele snuck into his bedroom, instructing Andreas to lightly drug his wife and move her elsewhere while he dealt with him.

“W-what’s happening?’ The man asked in a tremulous voice as he opened his eyes to come face to face with Michele’s sinister visage.

But Michele didn’t let the old man speak, stuffing his mouth with a sock he’d picked off the floor.

‘I will talk and you will listen. You will nod if you understand. If not, you’re forfeiting your life,’ he smiled at him, letting his blade pick up some shine from the beam of moonlight sneaking through the window.

Mr. Landers, the principal, nodded stiffly.

‘Good. Then I won’t waste your time, nor mine. Venezia Lastra,’ he simply stated, watching how the man blanched at the sound of the name.

Michele’s gaze dipped down to the cast on his finger. Andreas had told him Kuznetsov had cut it—which, he could respect. But why did the bastard have to leave the finger behind so Mr. Landers could reattach it? If it had been Michele, he’d have ground it up and force fed it to the man.

He paused, the idea having merit. Alas, what he wanted right now was a public apology that would set the world straight about his pet.

‘Graduation is in two days, isn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘And you’re set to make a speech, aren’t you?’

Another nod.

Michele leaned in so the man could look him straight in the eye.

‘Good. You will go up that podium and the first thing that will leave your mouth will be an apology to Venezia. You will tell the entire world that you were wrong, and that you were a perverted old man for having insinuated she was anything but a perfect lady. Are we clear?’

There were tears accumulating at the corner of the man’s eyes. Slowly, he nodded.

Still, Michele wasn’t satisfied. He needed more. An entire fucking spectacle to show the world she was off-limits.

‘When she comes up for her diploma, you will drop to your knees and you will prostate yourself at her feet,’ he added, his lips twitching in satisfaction at the mental image.

Mr. Landers’ eyes widened, and he hesitated when it was his turn to nod.

Michele scowled, removing the sock from his mouth and inviting him to speak.

‘Are we clear, Mr. Landers?’

The man blinked, seemingly confused about what to do. Slowly, and ever so reluctantly, he nodded.

Michele smiled, turning to go.

Yet he barely took a few steps towards the door when he heard it. The whispered slur.

Fucking whore.

‘What did you say?’ He pivoted, his expression monstrous.

“N-Nothing,’ Mr. Landers stammered.

‘Well, I think I heard something.’

In two steps, Michele was upon him. With absolutely no hesitation, he wrenched the principal’s hand, digging his knife into the finger cast and wiggling it around until he perforated it.

‘I will ask once more. What. Did. You. Say?’

‘That she’s a fucking whore,’ Mr. Landers screamed.

A sadistic smile appeared on Michele’s face, and with one punch, he had Mr. Landers almost passed out—certainly enough for Michele to remove the cast with no resistance.

Finally, he beheld the finger, the suture lines clear at the base, and his glee increased as he brought his knife down onto it, cutting slowly, precisely—enough that Mr. Landers howled in pain from it.

When the finger was finally removed, blood pouring from the wound, Michele didn’t stop. One hand around his neck, he pried the man’s mouth open and he stuffed the finger inside, forcing him to chew.

‘Let me make one thing clear. This is child’s play compared with what I will do to you if you don’t offer her an apology in front of everyone. I will know, Mr. Landers. I will be there and I will be watching for your every move,’ he said as he thrust the man back.

His mouth was open, his cheeks strained as saliva coursed down his chin. The finger was sticking out from his mouth, his teeth holding it in place as tears streaked his face. And one look down confirmed what the smell had already told Michele.

The man shat himself.

Good. At least now he knew Michele was serious.

If there was something Michele despised, perhaps more than he’d ever admit, it was anyone else insulting his pet. But to call her a whore?

A whore?

That was completely out of question and just hearing the implication dug painfully at his heart.

She was no one’s whore—except his.

Because she was his. And for as long as she lived—for as long as he lived—she would be his. There was no other alternative for it.

She was his possession. His whore. His plaything. And because she was his, she could be no one else’s. No one would be allowed to touch, speak, or even gaze at her.

The more he thought about all those leery boys and their stupid grins, or the men who’d laughed at her but had probably jerked off to the image of her sweet lips, he lost even more control of himself.

At the back of his mind, maybe he realized he’d made a miscalculation. In a moment of pure anger, he’d reacted against her, seeking to chase her away—from his life, from his mind, from his goddamn blood. But even then, unconsciously, he’d only released the video that was least revealing of her form. After all, he’d never show anyone what was for his eyes only to see.

But his attempt at ridding himself of the complication that she embodied had backfired.

Instead of going on with his life as if he’d never laid eyes on her before, everything had gone to shit.

His mood. His mind. His fucking daily routine that he’d depended on for as long as he could remember.

Everything that was left was her goddamn voice in his ear—tormenting and haunting him like even his worst nightmares had been unable to.

And so Michele came to a swift, but rather sensible solution. He reduced everything to common-sense and the fact that he was a selfish son of a bitch.

Why did he have to give her up? Why did he have to deprive himself of the pleasure of her body? Why did he have to do any such thing when a second option was right before him?

He would take her. He would use her until he finally had his fill of her. And then he would get rid of her.

His mistake, he begrudgingly admitted, had been in throwing her away before he’d gotten tired of her—before he’d explored every little hidden corner of her psyche. Because that was what haunted him, he convinced himself. The what-ifs. The fact that he knew there was more to her and he’d never be able to enjoy it—never know those sides of her to the fullest.

And he would tire of her. Eventually.

He was nothing if not fickle about things and was self-aware enough to recognize that part of himself. Nothing and no one could possibly hold his interest forever.

But for now?

The more he thought about it, the more excited he became as he rationalized all his future steps. After all, wasn’t this just another type of revenge? Maybe even more potent as each member of her family realized Michele was tainting her with his touch, that she was a whore but only because she was his whore.

It was still revenge.

He wasn’t going against his vows.

He could have her and his revenge.

Yes, he nodded to himself as he stared at the trembling old man covered in blood. That was more like it. How the hell had he been unable to come to this conclusion earlier? He would have spared himself the frustration of trying to not think about her, and the pain of weeks of blue balls.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

Reality shifted anew as calmness settled over him. A calmness that he hadn’t known since the moment she’d left his home.

She was his to do as he liked.

His fucking toy.

And he wanted to play.

‘I want every corner of her room under surveillance. And adjacent rooms. Anything that might be of use. I don’t know how you do it, but I want it done, Andreas. And only I will have access to the feed. Is that clear?’ He told Andreas as they left Mr. Landers home behind.

‘Yes, sir,’ Andreas happily answered.

It struck Andreas only later that he’d agreed to add cameras and bugs to Vlad Kuznetsov’s house—the infamous Berserker.

He swallowed nervously, then shrugged.

It was just another day on the job.