ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN.

ALESSANDRO, AKA DON VALENTINO.

In the past, I have murdered.

I have intimidated.

I have brutalised, and I have been cold-blooded.

And tonight, I'll do it all over again with a fucking smile on my face.

I step into the hotel's basement, leaving Zeke and Milford at the door on guard duty.

A certain face looks up at me, and my hands automatically curl into tight balls of fury at my sides.

This sack of merda in front of me, on his knees, has caused me so much unnecessary fucking grief, anger, and hostility.

The look of him all beaten up doesn't break my heart, nor does it flutter for him out of pity.

His split bottom lip with dried blood, the bruises smeared across his face and his black eye has no emotional effect on me.

If anything, he hasn't endured anything close enough to what my Ivy has.

I stare down at him as he looks up at me and a glimmer of fear gleams in his eyes, but it only lasts for a split second before it completely vanishes.

And for that split second, it brings an