Bella and Rachel were still asleep when Lucas quietly left the house.
Before he stepped outside, he paused in the doorway, looking back once—just to take in the soft hush of the morning around them. Then he closed the door carefully behind him.
He slipped his phone into his pocket, started the engine, and pulled away from the house.
But he didn't go to the office.
Instead, he drove east along the coastal road to his private mansion—the one almost no one knew about, not even most of his men. Only the people he trusted with his life.
Renato was already there, standing near the wide double doors with his hands shoved into his pockets. His expression was grim.
Lucas stepped out of the car, his jaw tightening. "Any change?"
Renato shook his head. "He still refuses to talk. He knows exactly what's at stake, but he keeps insisting he won't tell us who else knows about Bella or where she's staying."
They walked inside together, their steps echoing across polished marble. The captive was in a locked room, under heavy guard.
"He's stalling," Lucas said quietly. "He thinks if he buys time, reinforcements will come. We need to break him before that happens."
Renato didn't disagree, but he looked distracted, and Lucas could tell something else was pulling at him.
Finally, Renato spoke. "Lucas…I got a call last night."
Lucas studied him. "From who?"
"Irina."
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The name itself carried too much weight.
Renato rubbed a hand over his face. "She sounded…desperate. She said she can't take it anymore. That she's just a pawn to him and she wants out."
Lucas's gaze sharpened. "And you believe her?"
"I don't know," Renato admitted hoarsely. "But if she's telling the truth, she's risking everything by calling me."
Lucas was silent, thinking of all the ways this could be a trap. The Russian Don was smart—smart enough to test them by using his own wife. But looking at Renato, he could see it plainly: this wasn't just an affair. Renato loved her.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. "You realize if this goes wrong, he'll come after you—and me. And if he connects anything to Bella—"
"I know." Renato's voice broke just a little. "But I can't ignore her, Lucas. I can't."
Lucas's expression softened, though only a fraction. "I'll help you figure out if she's sincere. But not now. Not until this is handled." He gestured toward the locked room. "Bella's safety comes first."
Renato nodded slowly. "Understood."
They parted without another word. Renato headed down the hall to brief the guards.
Left alone, Lucas walked to the big window overlooking the ocean. The waves rolled in, calm and relentless.
He thought of Bella, probably still curled in bed, her hair a soft tangle on the pillow. He thought of the message he'd sent—how easy it was to type a small lie.
He felt a flicker of guilt. But it disappeared under the cold certainty that this was the only way to keep her safe.
And still—just for a moment—he caught himself missing her warmth more than he wanted to admit.
Lucas pushed open the heavy glass door to his office, the familiar hush of the space welcoming him. The sleek expanse of polished wood and steel had always been a sanctuary—a place where he was in control, no matter how chaotic the world beyond these walls became.
Mark was already standing near the desk, tablet in hand, waiting.
"Morning," Lucas said, voice low but steady despite the dull ache at his temple. He hadn't slept properly, though not from regret. Just from the simple, disarming reality that Bella's face wouldn't leave his mind.
"Morning. Here are the latest reports. The first shipment for the new route left Marseilles overnight."
Lucas nodded, scanning the numbers, the logistics, the careful plans he and Mark had built over years. To any outsider, this was just business—cold, efficient, unstoppable. But under the surface, it was more. A network he'd built to protect what he loved.
He flipped to the next set of files, tapping his pen thoughtfully.
"Any word from the men watching the docks?" he asked without looking up.
"One of them reported movement around midnight," Mark replied. "But no new players we haven't already mapped. The captive hasn't cracked, but he's close."
Lucas's jaw flexed, remembering how the bastard's fist had caught him square on the cheek. He'd tasted blood—and his own rage.
He signed three documents in quick succession. Then, almost absently, he tugged the folder closer and paused.
In the corner, a little doodle peeked out—a bright crayon heart, clumsy and sweet.
RACHEL was printed in careful letters inside it.
He stilled, his gaze softening. She must have slipped it into his briefcase sometime over the weekend. Probably when he wasn't looking, her small hands determined to remind him he belonged to more than this empire.
He slid the paper aside carefully, exhaling.
Next came a plain cream envelope. His fingers hesitated on the flap before he pulled it open and drew out the marriage certificate—Bella's name looping beside his own in delicate script.
A ridiculous thing to keep in his office, some might say. But it was proof. Proof that in all the cold calculations and years of bloodshed, he'd somehow found something warm. Something real.
Lucas set the certificate down and pressed his palm to the page, as if to anchor himself to the memory of her sleepy face that morning, the way she'd insisted on tending his bruises even when she was angry. Will she ever accept all this?
No business deal—no war—had ever shaken him like she did.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, the decision was no longer a question.
He would end this. Every last threat.
No matter how long it took or what it cost.
He lifted his gaze to Mark.
"Schedule me time with the captive again this evening," he said quietly.
Mark nodded. "Of course."
Lucas looked down at Rachel's drawing once more, the corner of his mouth softening into a fleeting smile.
And then he returned to the paperwork, his mind split between strategy…and the family that had somehow made him human again.