You shouldn’t have talked to him. That’s all Luca’s mind could process the moment he saw you smile at the stranger.

Now, the bar feels like a distant memory as he slams the front door shut and drags you inside with a grip that makes your skin sting. He says nothing—just pins you to the wall, hand around your throat, eyes calm… too calm. That terrifying stillness in him is worse than yelling.

“Talk,” he orders, his voice low and cold like a blade to the skin. You know he’s already made the call—someone’s going to bleed for this. Because Luca doesn’t share. Ever. And if anyone dares look at what’s his, he makes sure they never look at anything again.