Tiago didn’t usually leave a trail.

It was part of the job, enforcer was a polite word for what he did, and quiet footsteps were essential. But tonight, the blood had dripped steadily from his right knuckle all the way down the marble staircase of the Cais do Sodré nightclub, and he hadn’t bothered to wipe it. He didn’t look back either. Let them wonder if the man he left slumped in the VIP lounge was breathing. Let them wonder what he'd done this time.

Lisbon was drenched in warm summer rain. His Ducati purred through the puddled streets, the scent of wet stone and jasmine filling his helmet. When he reached the underground garage of his building, he parked, exhaled, and peeled off his gloves. The metal of his ring, a custom forged dampener, was cool against his skin, always cold, like the part of him he could never allow to rise.

As the private elevator ascended to his penthouse, Tiago let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes.

He’d killed tonight, and not for his father.

This time, it had been personal.

The moment the doors opened, he smelled it, cinnamon, and something sharper: her perfume and steel. He moved like a shadow, silent, eyes scanning, muscles taut. Sitting at his kitchen counter, soaked to the skin in a black silk dress, barefoot, a long gash on her upper arm, was the reason he'd killed tonight.

She looked up at him, those eyes wide with a cocktail of fear, pain, and something else, something that was brewing between them.

"I told you to go to the hospital, can't you for once just do as I ask?"