CHAPTER 153: BLOODY EAGLE ( EMILIANO’S POV )

"This is your new space? Sheesh, lawyers are getting paid good these days. Maybe I should change career paths."

"You? A law enforcement?"

"Consider my feelings hurt."

"I prepared all the ingredients you gave me on the list. I don’t exactly have a lab for you to work in, but the kitchen is clean and well-equipped."

"Don’t worry, I’ll manage."

Of course, I will manage.

I managed to build an empire with just some pathetic little pharmacy the old woman left behind.

I started selling formulas. Cheap knockoffs at first, stuff no one with a real lab would touch.

But junkies and thugs didn’t care. All they wanted was something that worked fast and hit harder than anything on the legal market. I gave them that.

I pieced together chemistry from stolen textbooks and broken lab equipment. Dumpster diving became a part-time job.

Claus did nothing.

He was always somewhere behind me, whining and moaning about something, but not really doing anything.

By sixteen, I had my own setup in an abandoned factory.

It leaked.

The power was sketchy.

But it worked.

I hired a couple of idiots from the neighborhood—muscle, mostly. People who didn’t ask questions. Paid them in product and petty cash. They kept the cops off me, kept the junkies in line, and beat the competition into the pavement. Simple ecosystem.

I optimized everything. I scaled production. I bought a legit LLC through a front. Started laundering through a chain of smoothie bars. Who’s gonna question kale and protein powder?

By eighteen, I had money. Real money. I was still hiding my face. Still living under aliases. But I was eating filet mignon instead of rodents.

I upgraded labs. Brought in real scientists. Most didn’t know who I was. They didn’t have to. They just had to do what I said and keep their mouths shut.

The pharmaceutical company came together when I realized people will pay ten times more for something if it’s FDA-approved. I had the patents.

I had the research.

I worked hard for every scrap of information.

I gave it a new name, slapped a label on it, and started pitching it to desperate hospitals and crooked doctors.

The trick was running the clean business and the dirty one in parallel.

On the books, I was an up-and-coming disruptor in biotech. Off the books, I was the guy you called when you wanted to wipe out a rival gang, sedate an omega, or overdose a senator in a way that looked natural.

I also had the Gardens.

People call them brothels. That’s not accurate. These weren’t filthy motels or sleazy corners. I tried to keep them clean and cosy, however dirty that might sound.

The omegas? Mostly trafficked. Some came willingly, most didn’t. I didn’t ask. I didn’t care.

They were like me— in a way.

If they wanted to live, they should fight. Scratch, bite, tear apart to live another day. On the chance I gave them.

Each Garden was themed. Each had handlers.

Each had its own chemists to manage the drug balance—keep the omegas pliant but not dead, addicted but not useless.

It was a science. One I perfected. The clientele paid for discretion, and I delivered.

Surveillance, blackmail failsafes, private security that would make military teams look like mall cops.

Nobody walked into a Garden and came out clean.

The money from the Gardens rivaled the drug business. Combined? It built an empire. I bought politicians, judges, CEOs. Half the idiots running public health boards were on my payroll. The other half were too scared to cross me.

Now here’s the fun part: nobody saw me coming. No Ivy League degree. No legacy. I wasn’t some polished tech bro in a blazer.

I was the kid who ate rats and built his empire on blood, narcotics, and silence. I didn’t network. I didn’t pitch. I didn’t market. I used all I could to stay alive.

A clean kitchen with enough space for me to move and the right ingredients? Luxury in my terms.

So I will manage to make the pill to dim my pheromones to nothing for a couple of hours.

The problem is how I stop Lucrezia from pointing all of this at me.

The lawyer’s kitchen looks like it’s never been used. Chrome everything, a fridge the size of a crypt, and not a single crumb anywhere. Probably has a staff of underpaid culinary elves scrubbing it hourly. I take off my jacket, toss it on the marble island like I own the place, and get to work.

Let’s get to work.

First drawer I open? Filled with silverware so polished I can see my face judging me.

Second drawer? Spices alphabetized.

Third? Jackpot: random junk.

Zip ties, batteries, a dog leash, and some weird European gum. Rich people and their chaos corners. I grab what I need and set the rest down gently.

No need to upset the lawyer’s "aesthetic."

I unload the little black kit from the bag he prepared. The lock clicks open like it’s been dying to breathe.

I pull out the vial first — a tiny thing, sealed tight, glowing faintly like it’s judging me back. Two drops is all I need.

I tilt it, squeeze, and let them fall into a square of treated gauze. The scent hits immediately. Sharp. Bitter. Like regret and mint had a baby.

Next, the binder gel. Looks like Vaseline but smells like crushed metal. I scoop a fingerful and smear it over the gauze, coating it evenly. It fizzles on contact.

That’s normal. I think.

I glance at the digital timer on the microwave. Big bold numbers that scream, "You can’t cook but you’re still better than everyone." I’ve got 90 seconds to activate the mix before it stabilizes into an inert disappointment.

I reach into the kit again and grab the heat patch.

It’s thinner than a playing card and twice as smug. Press it against the mix, wait three seconds — one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three — and snap. The patch seals with a hiss.

Warm to the touch, like a fresh latte.

Perfect.

I stick it to the inside of my wrist and hold my breath. Five seconds. Ten. Nothing explodes. Always a good sign.

There. Neutralized. I’m now safe for public consumption. Or, at least, slightly less likely to cause chaos just by walking past someone. Progress.

I toss the used supplies into a tiny waste bag — biodegradable, thank you very much — and seal the kit shut. Clean, precise, efficient. Like a high-end drug dealer with a conscience.

I rinse my hands in the sink. The faucet has one of those touch sensors, but it takes me three tries to get it to work because apparently, I’m not rich enough to be recognized as a human in this house.

Behind me, I hear the sound of designer shoes approaching. Click, click, click.

"You done violating my kitchen?"

Tom asked, leaning against the doorway with a glass of something that costs more than a regular person’s rent. He’s wearing a robe. Of course he is.

I’m still not over the fact that this man—

This redder Ed Sheeran f-cked both my mother and my wife.

But I don’t have time to unpack all that.

Not yet.

"Please," I say, drying my hands on a towel that feels like it’s made of Egyptian clouds. "Your kitchen was begging for it. I did it a favor."

He eyes the patch on my wrist.

"That thing work?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Want to test it?"

He laughs. Nervously. I slide the kit back into my bag, zip it, and sling it over my shoulder. The patch hums gently against my skin, settling into its 24-hour duty. One full day of peace. Or at least relative calm.

I just got to wear it for half hour to take effect.

"How are you going to stop Lucrezia?"

He is anxious.

Of course he is. He became her number one enemy for getting me out of that cell.

"Well, I can’t prove that she is responsible for the mass murdering that’s to come. So, I’ll fake the proof."

"How?"

"They arrested me from Killian’s office. He made the drug and had played out all the components to it and all the process on his desk. Shuffled, disorganized, but there."

"How is that relevant?"

I take the glass from his hand before he finishes his sip. Cold, smooth crystal against my palm. I lift it, taste the rim still warm from his mouth, the liquor sharp on my tongue. I don’t blink. Just hold his gaze over the edge as I drink.

He stiffens slightly. Barely.

I lower the glass, set it aside on the table without looking.

He doesn’t move.

I lean in. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath. His lashes shift. There’s a single hair crossing his cheek, red and fine. I reach up. Pinch it lightly between thumb and forefinger. I pull it free with care, slow, deliberate, not breaking eye contact.

His jaw clenches. Barely noticeable.

The hair drifts from my fingers. I don’t watch it fall.

My hand stays raised, hovers for a beat, then lowers to his face. Back of my fingers brushing along his jaw. Warm skin. Trimmed stubble. I drag my knuckles along the edge, light pressure, just enough for contact. He doesn’t lean in. He doesn’t lean away.

My fingers shift. Palm curves gently against his cheek. I let it rest there. Skin on skin. My thumb presses in slightly, near the corner of his mouth. Not enough to move it. Just enough to remind him I’m there.

His chest rises, subtle and shallow.

I drag my thumb up, trace the bone beneath his eye. Slow. Measured. My other hand stays by my side, still, relaxed.

I tilt my head slightly. No words. Just breath and closeness.

I would lie if I said I wasn’t curious. What is this man really like to sweep both my wife and my mother off their feet?

He doesn’t flinch.

My fingers curl, nails brushing the edge of his ear. I trail the touch down, along his jaw, back to his neck. Just the tips. Then pull away. A clean break.

But I am married. A married man. And I don’t cheat.

"I learned it all."

"How could you? I doubt you were there for hours."

"What can I say, darling? I am that smart!"

He scrunched his nose in a theatrical manner. Cute.

"Even if you learned it all. How could you—"

"Lucrezia will have a leak."

"A leak?"

"I have someone who owes me a favor. If I make him the leak, he will not only ruin Lucrezia’s credibility, but it will make Luther crawl back to me."

"Luther? Crawling back to you?"

He chuckled dryly.

"My wife really like this bloody eagle."