Chapter 14 - Whispers in the Dark
The signed Moretti treaty lay flat on the center of the heavy walnut desk in Leo’s private study. The ink was dry, sealing the complete and total dominance of the Casaro syndicate across the entire Northeast corridor.
Leo stood by the desk, staring down at the signature with a mixture of profound shock and burning admiration. For thirty years, he had fought tooth and nail against the Moretti family, shedding blood and spending millions to maintain a fragile truce. In less than ten minutes, Myra had forced Vincent Moretti to sign away his entire maritime empire without firing a single bullet.
“You humiliated him,” Leo said, looking up as Myra walked into the study, shedding her heavy blazer and tossing it over the back of a leather chair. “Vincent Moretti hasn't bent the knee to anyone since the cocaine wars of the nineties. The Boston capos will call him weak.”
“Let them call him weak,” Myra replied, pouring herself a finger of neat scotch from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. She took a slow sip, letting the amber liquid burn away the lingering tension in her chest. “Weakness is contagious in the underworld. When his own men realize he caved to a woman, they’ll turn on him within a month. We won't even have to lift a finger to finish them off.”
Leo crossed his arms, stepping closer to her. The dim amber light of the desk lamp cast deep shadows across his rugged face, highlighting the scars of a lifetime spent at war.
“You’re becoming terrifyingly good at this, Myra,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, husky register. “Sometimes I forget you used to be the sweet girl who cried over her father’s medical bills.”
Myra turned her head slowly, meeting his intense gaze. The air between them suddenly felt heavy, charged with an undeniable, electric current that had been building since the night of the birthday party.
“My father’s bills were real, Leo,” she said softly, stepping closer until only a few inches separated them. “The girl who cried over them is dead. You killed her when you showed me what real power looks like.”
Leo reached out, his large, calloused hand gently cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, his touch surprisingly tender for a man whose hands had ended countless lives.
“I didn't kill her, Myra,” he whispered, his eyes burning with an intense, possessive hunger. “I woke her up.”
Myra didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second before she opened them again, filled with absolute resolve. She raised her hands, resting her palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his heart beneath his custom-tailored shirt.
“There’s still one loose end,” Myra whispered against his lips, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr.
“Name it,” Leo breathed, his gaze locked onto her mouth.
“Chloe,” Myra said. “She thinks she got away by fleeing to London with whatever cash she could scrape together before her father’s accounts were frozen.”
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A dark, lethal smile touched the corners of Leo’s mouth. “Do you want her brought back?”
“No,” Myra smiled coldly. “Let her rot in London. But let’s make sure she watches every single stock she owns crash to zero by midnight.”
