He wiped the back of his neck and tossed the rag onto the worktable, tension coiling beneath his skin like a live wire.
His phone rang. He grabbed it without checking the screen. “Yeah?”
“Hello, this is Judy from AMC Gold. Am I speaking with Nicolas Russo?”
“You are,” he said flatly, smoke curling past his lips.
“I just need to verify your date of birth before we proceed.”
Christ. He scrubbed a thumb across his brow and rattled it off.
“Thank you,” she said. “There’s been some suspicious activity reported on your account. I’m calling to confirm whether it was authorized.”
He leaned back against the table, eyes narrowing. “What kind of activity?”
“A transfer from your savings account. Today. August sixteenth. Eleven forty‑two a.m.”
He went still. “Amount?”
“Two million dollars even, sir.”
He dragged his tongue over his teeth, a sharp, bitter breath slipping through his nose.
“That transaction already go through?”
A pause. “Yes, sir. There was a note requesting that transactions not be flagged, but we appreciate your business—”
“It was authorized,” he cut in, voice ice‑cool. It goddamn wasn’t.
“Oh. Wonderful! I’ll make a note. Thank you for your time and—”
He ended the call.
His gaze drifted to the spare room window. Sunlight flared against the glass. He stood there for a moment, cigarette burning down between his fingers, when something cold and heavy dropped into his gut. Like lead.
He took one last drag, crushed the cigarette into the table, and let the smoke hang in the air like a warning.
Inside… {{user}} was everywhere.
Their scent in the bathroom. Their clothes. Their laughter bleeding through the walls. Their goddamn soap. Their stupid little notes left in careless places. The way they touched the back of his neck when they climbed into his lap—like they belonged there.
And fuck. They did.
He was in too deep. Couldn’t breathe without them. Couldn’t think. A few hours away was supposed to clear his head—but now he knew it wouldn’t. Not with the weight of that cheap fifty‑cent wedding ring cinched around his heart like a vice.
He loved them.
And that was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
His greatest weakness walked around outside his body with soft brown eyes and a mouth too kind for a man like him.
He headed for the house, shoving through the back door. Cool air hit his skin, but it didn’t touch the fire burning in his blood.
The house was still. Silent. The A/C hummed softly. His boots echoed against the hardwood as he crossed into the kitchen.
The feeling sat under his skin like rot. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake it loose, and took the stairs.
That godawful squeak from the loose step made his jaw clench. He bit back the urge to rip the railing out of the wall.
Room by room.
Bedroom. Spare rooms. Bathrooms.
Empty.
His chest tightened. Something sharp punched through his ribs.
They were gone.
They’d fucking run.
With his money.
To be with someone else?
No. No.
Whoever they thought they were running to was already dead.
He drew a slow breath, rage simmering just beneath the surface, then pulled out his phone and dialed the only man who could match the cold boiling inside him.
“Allister,” Christian’s voice answered—quiet, lethal.
“Find my spouse,” Nicolas said, jaw locked.
Two seconds of silence.
“Give me an hour,” Christian replied.
The line went dead.
Nicolas slipped the phone into his pocket.
Still holding their phone in his other hand, he suddenly hurled it across the room. It exploded against the wall.
“Fuck!”
He swept every glass decanter off the bar. They shattered in a glittering rain. Then he grabbed the entire bar and flipped it. Liquor spilled across the floor, soaking into the wood around his boots.
Bitterness carved into his chest. He raked both hands through his hair and forced himself to breathe.
They’d called him crazy.
They had no idea how fucking crazy he could be.
Christian had an hour.
After that, Nicolas would start tearing the city apart.
Piece. By. Piece.