Alessandro snapped the phone shut with a curt “Do it,” the call finally fucking over. Three minutes—too long, but business was business. He turned sharply, shoving the velvet drapery aside, already scanning for Sage’s dark hair and suit near the pillar where he’d left him.

The sight that hit him stopped his heart cold, then ignited it into a furnace of pure, blinding rage.

Volkov.

The Russian had Sage pinned against the pillar—hand fisted in his omega’s jacket, the other groping low and crude between his legs, body grinding forward like he had any right to touch what was Alessandro’s. Sage’s face was turned away, jaw clenched, but Alessandro saw the tension in his frame, the way he leaned back as far as the stone allowed, defiance and fear warring in every line.

Every drop of blood in Alessandro’s body turned molten.

He moved without sound, without thought—pure predator. The crowd blurred into irrelevance; the music, the laughter, the clink of glasses all vanished under the roar in his ears. Ten strides. Five. Volkov was too lost in his filthy groping to notice death coming up behind him.

Alessandro’s hand clamped around the back of Volkov’s neck like a steel vise, yanking him backward with enough force to rip the Russian off Sage and slam him face-first into the opposite pillar. The crack of skull against marble was sharp, satisfying. Volkov’s gasp of shock was cut short as Alessandro spun him again, fist driving into his gut hard enough to fold him in half, then an uppercut that snapped his head back and split his lip in a spray of red.

“You touched him,” Alessandro snarled, voice low and lethal, barely human. He grabbed Volkov by the throat, lifting him clean off his feet and slamming him against the wall, forearm crushing his windpipe. “You put your filthy fucking hands on my mate.”

Volkov clawed at his arm, choking, eyes bulging, but Alessandro only pressed harder, vision tunneling red. He could feel Sage behind him—close, breathing fast—but he didn’t look away from the man he was seconds from killing.

Neutral ground meant nothing. Rules meant nothing. The only thing that existed was the memory of Volkov’s hand between Sage’s legs, the way his omega had been forced to endure even a second of it.

“I warned you,” Alessandro hissed, face inches from Volkov’s bloodied one. “I told you what would happen if you looked at him again.”

His free hand drew the pistol from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion, pressing the cold barrel under Volkov’s chin. The click of the hammer was deafening in the sudden hush around them—guests finally noticing, backing away, whispers rising like smoke.

Alessandro didn’t care who saw. He wanted them to see.

He leaned in close, voice a deadly whisper only Volkov could hear.

“You will never touch him again. You will never look at him again. Because the next time I see your face, I will end you—slowly—and I will make sure every piece of you is found in a different fucking river.”

Only then did he glance back at Sage—eyes wild, chest heaving, searching his mate’s face for any sign of injury, any mark Volkov might have left. The rage flickered into something rawer, more desperate.

He released Volkov with a shove that sent the Russian sprawling to the marble floor, coughing and gasping. Alessandro’s soldiers were already there, hauling the bastard up by his arms, waiting for the order.

“Get him out of my sight,” Alessandro snapped at them, voice shaking with fury. “And make sure he understands the message.”

Then he turned fully to Sage, holstering the gun with trembling fingers, hands immediately cupping his omega’s face—gentle now, reverent, scanning every inch for harm.

“Amore,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Did he hurt you? Tell me—tell me exactly what he did.”

His thumbs stroked over Sage’s cheeks, grounding himself in the warmth of his skin, the fact that he was still here, still his.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I left you alone.” The words were torn out of him, raw and ragged. “We’re going home. Right now. And I swear on my life—no one will ever get that close to you again.”

He pulled Sage into his arms, crushing him against his chest, one hand tangled in his hair, the other locked around his waist like he could shield him from the entire world.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered fiercely against his temple. “I’ve got you. Always.”

Alessandro kept Sage cradled in his lap the entire drive, one hand splayed possessively over the omega’s lower back, the other stroking slow, grounding paths through his hair. The city lights streaked past the tinted windows, but he barely saw them. All his focus was on the man in his arms—the faint tremor he could feel in Sage’s thighs, the way his breaths came too quick, the quiet, lethal venom in his voice when he spoke of Volkov’s ruin.

I want it to be slow. I want it to hurt.

Alessandro’s chest swelled with something fierce and dark. His beautiful, unbreakable mate—shaken, yes, but already sharpening his grief into a weapon. He pressed a kiss to Sage’s temple, lingering there, breathing him in.

“It will be,” he promised, voice low and deadly calm. “Slow enough that he feels every piece of his life slip away. His money first—accounts frozen, assets seized. Then his men—offers they can’t refuse, loyalties bought or broken. His suppliers will vanish. His routes will burn. And every time he thinks he’s found a lifeline, I’ll cut it. He’ll watch it all crumble, day after day, until he’s on his knees begging for a mercy I won’t give.”

He tilted Sage’s chin up gently, forcing their eyes to meet in the dim, passing light.

“And you’ll be there for every step you want to see,” he said. “In my office when I make the calls. Beside me when we take what’s his. And when he’s finally nothing—just a broken man in a cell with no light, no hope, no name—you’ll decide if he ever sees the sun again.”

His thumb traced Sage’s lower lip, tender despite the violence in his words.

“But tonight is for you.”

The car turned onto their private drive, gates closing behind them with a soft clang. Alessandro didn’t wait for the driver—he opened the door himself, lifting Sage out and carrying him straight through the front doors, past the guards who knew better than to speak. Up the stairs, down the hall, into their bedroom suite.

He set Sage down only long enough to start the bath—hot water thundering into the deep marble tub, steam rising thick and scented with the calming oils he knew Sage liked. Then he was back, hands careful as he undressed his omega: jacket peeled away, shirt unbuttoned slowly, trousers slid down strong legs. Every inch of exposed skin was inspected under the soft light—no bruises, thank Christ, but Alessandro kissed each place Volkov had dared to touch anyway, slow and reverent, overwriting the memory with his own.

When Sage was bare, Alessandro stripped himself just as efficiently and guided him into the water, settling behind him so Sage could lean back against his chest. The heat enveloped them both, loosening muscles, quieting the adrenaline.

He reached for the cloth, soaping it before gliding it over Sage’s shoulders, down his arms, across his chest—slow, methodical, worshipful.

“No one will ever lay a hand on you again,” he murmured against the damp skin of Sage’s neck, lips brushing the claiming mark. “I’ll burn the world down first.”

His arms tightened around Sage’s waist, holding him close beneath the water.

“You were so strong tonight,” he whispered. “Standing there, defiant even when you were scared. Threatening him with that fire in your eyes. I’m proud of you, piccolo. So fucking proud.”

He let the silence settle for a long moment, just the sound of water and their breathing.

“Tell me what you need,” he said finally, voice soft but absolute. “Anything. Tonight, tomorrow, every day after. Tell me, and it’s yours.”

He pressed another kiss to the mark, then rested his chin on Sage’s shoulder, surrounding him completely.

“I’ve got you, amore. Always.”