He Chose His Bastard Over Our Baby - Chapter 6: Chapter 6

They say the dead don't come back. They're dead wrong. I wasn't just back—I was on the hunt.
It started with whispers at the docks. First one supplier vanished, then another. Contracts fell through, shipments got "lost." Lorenzo's once-untouchable empire was cracking at the seams. And the bastard had no clue I was the one swinging the hammer.
"Word's getting around," Ronan muttered beside me, scanning the waterfront with hawk-like intensity. "Some of his guys think you're still breathing."
I adjusted my black gloves with a smirk. "Let them wonder."
Darius lounged against the car hood, watching me with amusement. "You're loving this."
I turned, my face unreadable. "You think I came back just to put a bullet in him?"
He chuckled. "Nah. You want him to squirm first. And I gotta say—I'm enjoying the show."
Damn right I did. And the curtain was just going up.
La Rosetta's air hung thick with cigar smoke and top-shelf whiskey—the perfume of power and corruption. I cut through the crowd like a knife, my red dress burning through the club's dim lighting. Every step planned. Every glance a trap.
Riccardo Morelli sat exactly where I wanted him—VIP section, surrounded by bodyguards too drunk to notice me sliding into the seat beside him. His dark eyes locked onto me, sizing me up.
"Who the hell are you?" Rough voice, but I caught the interest underneath.
I tilted my head with a slow, knowing smile. "Where's the fun in spoiling the surprise?"
Riccardo barked a laugh, sinking into the leather. "Mysterious. I like it."
I plucked the drink from his hand, sipped without breaking eye contact. The bourbon burned, but I barely tasted it as I set the glass down. "Expensive taste. Someone important, then?"
His chest puffed up. "You could say that."
I traced the glass rim with a fingertip. "Tell me, Mr. Important—what's a girl gotta do to get your attention?"
His smirk dropped to my collarbone. "Honey, you already got it."
I gave a throaty laugh, swirling his drink before handing it back. Our fingers brushed—his lingered.
"You're dangerous," he murmured.
I dragged a nail down his arm. "And you like that?"
"Fuck yes." His voice went gravelly, pupils blown with lust and liquor.
Perfect.
I tapped his glass with a manicured finger. "Better finish that, then. You'll need it."
He downed it without hesitation—never noticing the dissolving pill I'd slipped in, never catching how my smile turned razor-sharp as he swallowed. In ten minutes, he'd be putty in my hands.
I leaned close, lips grazing his ear. "Tell me something, Riccardo..." My breath warmed his skin. "Do guys like you ever regret what you've done?"
A lazy chuckle. "Sweetheart, men like me don't do regrets."
My hand slid down his chest. "Not even about your boss?"
Something flickered in his eyes. "Lorenzo?"
I propped my chin on my palm. "Mmm. You two must be tight."
He snorted. "Tight enough to know he's a goddamn moron half the time."
Jackpot.
I fake-gasped. "Lorenzo De Luca? A moron?"
Riccardo took another swig, the drug already loosening his tongue. "Used to be sharp. Ruthless. Lately?" He waved a sloppy hand. "Dude's distracted."
I tilted my head. "By...?"
He laughed, words slurring. "Some of the boys swear his dead wife's walking around."
My chest tightened, but I forced a giggle, twirling my hair. "Sounds like a bad horror movie."
He leaned in, whiskey breath hot on my cheek. "Maybe. But when Lorenzo's off his game? Whole operation feels it."
I fake-pouted. "Poor baby. Maybe he needs..forting."
Riccardo's head lolled back. "Christ, you're stunning."
I patted his cheek. "And you're wasted."
"Wasted on you, gorgeous."
Barely resisting an eye-roll, I trailed nails down his chest. His eyelids drooped. Five minutes tops.
I kissed his stubble, whispering, "Just relax...let me handle everything."
As the drug took hold, he slumped into the couch. By the time I stood, he was out cold. I straightened my dress, tossing over my shoulder: "Sweet dreams, asshole."
He'd remember nothing. But I would. And this was just the opening act. By dawn, Riccardo's accounts were drained, his routes compromised. By the time he noticed, Lorenzo's empire would be hemorrhaging.
A week later, I stood outside the cemetery—against my better judgment. Amara's grave called like a siren song I couldn't ignore.
Then I froze. I wasn't alone.
Lorenzo stood at our daughter's grave, shoulders tense, head bowed. I'd seen him cold, cruel, vicious—never like this. Broken. His fingers traced the headstone, lips moving in silent words. Part of me wanted to storm over, demand to know what he could possibly say to her.
But I stayed. Watched. Hated the way my stupid heart twisted when he knelt, forehead pressed to the marble.
No. He didn't get to mourn her. He'd chosen to let her die.
My nails bit into my palms. The fury inside me burned away that last shred of weakness. He'd suffer. Lose everything. Just like I had.
Darius waited in the car, taking one look at me. "You saw him."
"He doesn't get to grieve her."
He studied me. "Grief isn't a weakness, Val."
I met his gaze, voice like ice. "It is when it comes from the man who killed her."