Rocco Montenegro stepped into his penthouse, his body taut with exhaustion and irritation. The scent of citrus cleaner and fresh linen lingered in the air, but it did nothing to ease the tension coiled in his muscles.
He had spent the night hunting for answers, only to be met with lies and betrayal. The shipment of cocaine was still missing, and the man who had tried to deceive him—Luciano—was now a lifeless heap left for Vincenzo to clean up.
Rocco rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply. The weight of his empire pressed down on him, but he carried it like armor. He always did.
Then—
"Señor Montenegro."
The voice was soft but steady.
Rocco's gaze flicked up.
Gracie stood near the hallway, watching him with her usual quiet observance. The woman, who was in her late fifties, had been in his employ for a decade, long enough to know when to speak and when to keep her silence. She was one of the few people in his home that he tolerated—respected, even. She knew the rules, never ask questions, and act like you don't know nothing. And her loyalty, made her gain Rocco's trust.
He gave her a curt nod, prepared to walk past when she spoke again.
"She's here."
Rocco halted mid-step. His fingers curled into a fist.
Gracie continued, her voice careful. "Lucinda."
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
The irritation simmering beneath his skin ignited into something sharper. Without a word, he turned and strode down the hall, his footsteps heavy against the marble floors.
This woman—this persistent, delusional woman—had a habit of pushing boundaries he had long since drawn.
He shoved open his bedroom door.
And there she was.
Lucinda.
Lying across his bed, bare beneath his sheets, stretching like a satisfied cat. Her dark hair spilled over the pillows, her manicured fingers grazing the silk sheets in invitation.
She smirked at him, tilting her head. "Tardaste mucho en llegar, cariño." [You took too long to get home, darling.]
Rocco's face remained blank, but his voice was razor-sharp. "¿Qué demonios estás haciendo en mi cama?" [What the fuck are you doing in my bed?]
Lucinda pouted, unfazed by his cold demeanor. "Waiting for you, obviously." Her voice was coaxing, sultry. "You've been so distant lately, mi amor. I thought I'd surprise you."
His patience snapped.
"¿Te pedí que me esperaras?" [Did I ask you to wait for me?]
Lucinda's smirk faltered for half a second before she recovered, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. "We're together, aren't we?"
A cold, humorless laugh left his throat.
"¿Juntos?" [Together?] He stepped closer, looming over her. "We fuck, Lucinda. That's all this has ever been."
Her eyes darkened, her fingers tightening around the sheets. "That's a lie."
Rocco shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair. "Is it?"
Lucinda's gaze roamed over him, her expression shifting from anger to something softer. Something pleading. "You're tired," she murmured, reaching for him. "Come to bed. Let me take care of you."
He caught her wrist before she could touch him, his grip firm but not bruising. "No."
Her lips parted in shock. "Rocco—"
"You had no right to come here," he cut her off, his voice like steel. "No right to let yourself in. No right to make yourself comfortable in my bed."
Lucinda swallowed hard. "I just wanted to see you."
His jaw clenched.
"No," he repeated, colder this time. "The only reason you're still around is because I allow it. You're useful to me."
She stiffened. "Useful?"
Rocco released her wrist, stepping back. "The stories. The articles. The scandals you make disappear. That is why you are still here, Lucinda." His gaze was unrelenting. "Not because I love you. Not because you mean anything to me."
Lucinda flinched as if he had struck her.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Then, she scoffed. "You're such a cold bastard, you know that?"
She barely had time to react before Rocco moved.
In an instant, he yanked her off the bed, his fingers digging into her upper arm. The silk sheets tumbled to the floor as she gasped in shock.
His grip was tight. Unyielding.
His voice was low, deadly. "No vuelvas a entrar en mi casa sin mi permiso." [Don't ever come into my home without my permission again.]
Lucinda's breath hitched. Gone was the man who had indulged her games, the man who humored her advances. What stood before her now was something else entirely.
The devil she had always tried to tame.
Rocco leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his tone lethal.
"Y no vuelvas a poner un pie en mi habitación." [And don't ever step foot in my room again.]
Lucinda's body trembled. She could see it in his eyes—the finality, the warning. He was not bluffing.
She nodded, barely able to breathe.
Rocco released her without another word, stepping back. "Lárgate." [Get the fuck out.]
Lucinda hurriedly grabbed her silk nightwear from the floor, her hands shaking as she clutched it to her chest. Without another glance, she scurried out of the room, her heels clicking hastily against the floor.
The door shut behind her with a resounding click.
Rocco exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. His temples throbbed, his body tense with irritation. The night had been hell, and this? This just fucking added to it.
He reached for the door and locked it.
The silence in his room was deafening.
He dragged a hand through his hair, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Madrid skyline. The city twinkled beneath him, alive with indulgence, yet all he felt was a simmering frustration.
Then—
That face.
The one from earlier.
The woman he had bumped into at the hotel.
The one with fire in her eyes.
The one who had stood her ground, despite knowing exactly who he was.
Sienna.
Rocco exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the glass. She had irritated him. Defied him. Had the audacity to demand he fix her phone.
And yet—
A smirk crept onto his lips.
"Spitfire."