Broken by Silence, page 22
I shrug. “Maybe I want to.”
Oscar shifts, “Maybe these conversations should be had while Lottie wears some clothes?”
I shoot him a look that’s somewhere between exasperation and affection, tugging one of Archer’s shirts from the floor and slipping it over my head.
Crew chuckles, low in his chest, but Elijah doesn’t laugh.
He’s watching me.
Really watching.
There’s something in his expression—something tangled and unreadable, a storm of emotion behind the restraint. His eyes trail the fading marks on my neck, the fresh bruises along my jaw from Lorenzo’s grip, the tremor I keep trying to hide in my fingers.
When I glance up, his gaze meets mine and doesn’t move.
Roman catches the shift, clears his throat. “We’ll leave you two to it.”
Crew mutters something under his breath and drags Oscar and Archer out of the room, leaving just Elijah and me.
He runs a hand through his hair, slow, deliberate, like he’s buying himself time before he speaks. “You shouldn’t have been alone, Lottie.”
“I know.” The words come out small, and I hate that they do.
He exhales, jaw tight, then leans back against the counter. His voice is calm, but it carries weight. “When I heard… when Will called and said Lorenzo had found you… I thought my heart stopped. I thought…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I can’t go through losing you again.”
“You never lost me, though.”
He looks up sharply. “Didn’t I? You disappeared, and I never knew if it was because we drove you to it or if it was something else. Something I could have stopped. I made a grave for you, Lottie. Do you think there would be any part of me that would be sane if something happened to you again?”
He’s not angry… he’s broken. A quiet devastation in every word. I take a step toward him, hesitant. “You saved my dad. You put him in rehab. You made sure he got to live.”
Elijah’s throat works. His eyes glisten, but he blinks hard, holding it back. “I did it because I couldn’t save you. It was the only thing I could do. When I saw you again, I thought I was dreaming. I thought if I blinked too hard, you’d vanish again.”
I reach for him before I can think better of it, pressing my palm flat against his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my hand. “I’m right here,” I whisper.
He looks down at my hand, then back at my face, like he’s memorizing every detail. He cups the side of my face gently, fingers brushing the faint swelling at my temple. His touch is careful, reverent. “You fought back,” he says, pride threaded through his grief. He stares at me for a long moment, something raw flickering across his face. Then, without another word, he closes the distance. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice breaking on the edges.
“Like what?”
“Like I didn’t nearly break you.”
I start to speak, but he doesn’t give me the chance. His lips crash into mine. Sudden, desperate, like something inside him snapped. The kiss isn’t careful or rehearsed. It’s messy and aching and full of everything neither of us ever said. His hand slides to the back of my neck, and I grab his shirt, pulling him closer, tasting the salt of his tears, or maybe mine.
When he finally pulls away, he does it slowly, as if tearing himself free costs him something vital. His forehead rests against mine for a heartbeat, both of us breathless.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, voice hoarse.
“I’m glad you did,” I whisper.
He exhales hard, stepping back a pace, raking a hand through his hair. I take a half-step toward him anyway, and his eyes shut like he’s in pain.
“You deserve someone who doesn’t carry this much blood on his hands,” he says quietly. “And I… I don’t know how to be that yet.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Then learn. We all are.”
That pulls the faintest smile from him, crooked and aching. “God, you sound just like her,” he murmurs.
“Who?”
“The old you. The one who held three broken boys together until we turned on you.”
“I’m still her,” I tell him. “Just… a little harder to break now.”
His gaze softens, then he nods once, forcing distance back into his posture like it’s the only way to breathe. “Get ready, Lottie… And just know that I’ll be watching you tonight. No one will get close to you.”
As I turn to leave, he calls after me.“Lottie?”
I look back.
“If I ever touch you again,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “it’ll be because I’ve earned it.”
Chapter 32
Roman
We’re ending this…
That’s all I can think about as I cut the engine and step out of the car as we pull up outside The Velvet Room. Neon glows faintly, the red and purple lights flickering just enough to make the place look inviting.
Will leads, as usual. He’s steady, while all I want to do is fall apart. Crew lingers behind him, balancing on the balls of his feet, hands stuffed in his pockets. Oscar stays near the curb, watching the street, and Lottie, hands flexing occasionally in sign as he tells her to get inside where it’s warm.
Elijah is calm and composed, but I know him well enough to see the lines in his jaw tightening, the slight narrowing of his eyes as Lottie moves away from us. Archer is quiet beside me, in that taut way that shows he’s watching everyone’s move.
Inside, the Velvet Room is immaculate and professional. Lottie is working the floor during the meeting, not feeling comfortable stripping on stage while Claire and Will are here.
Siren.
I forgot her stage name. It suits her. I keep my eyes fixed on her as I step past the entrance, letting the others filter around me, security and business positions falling into place. Oscar is already stationed near the bar, eyes scanning the entrances and exits, watching Lottie. Crew hovers near our booth, arms crossed.
We slide into the booth at the back—Elijah to my left, Will next to him, Archer beside me. I lean back, calm, fingers tapping lightly on the table.
There is no excitement, only business.
Business with stakes far higher than money.
The door opens, and Pacheco walks in. The man commands attention without raising his voice. His men flank him, suits crisp, eyes alert, hands hovering over their holsters.
He sits, then signals for Lottie to come over. “Whiskey. No ice.”
She nods, turning her head to us, making no sign that she knows us. “And can I get anything for any of you?”
We place our orders. Whiskey and scotch, and she smiles and walks away. Weaving between tables with a smile on her face. I watch her for far longer than I should, silence blanketing the table until she returns with a tray of our drinks.
The clink of Pacheco’s glass pulls me back, the faint scent of oak, and he takes a sip. “You’ve built a reputation, Roman,” Pacheco begins. “The shipments are clean. Timely. Quality better than I got with your father. I’m impressed, and I don’t say that lightly.”
I nod. “Thank you, and you should know, this isn’t just numbers to me. It’s about loyalty… Respect.”
Pacheco’s eyes narrow slightly, leaning in. “Respect is earned.” His eyes sweep over each of us, “and some people have forgotten how to earn it. Lorenzo is one of them.”
I feel it—a flash beneath my calm exterior. Anger, old and raw, sharp as a blade. The words he carved into my back sting, and the tattoo on my jaw flexes as I clench my teeth together.
“He’s pissed off the wrong families,” Pacheco continues, oblivious to the storm inside of me. “Broken deals, shady operations, liabilities. Everyone is done with him. He’s exposed, and you know what that means, Roman.”
I let the words sink in, and let the cold facade my father beat into me, take over, but relief tugs at the corner of my mind. Finally. Finally, a way to finish this. “I understand.”
Pacheco nods once, approvingly. “Good. The families have given their blessing. You can take care of him, but make sure there are no loose ends. After, we can discuss everything else.”
Will and Pacheco talk logistics, and my fingers drum lightly against the table. I don’t speak. I don’t need to. The weight of everything, the final permission from the families, is enough.
I breath in, slow and deliberate, letting the relief mingle with the part of me that never thought I would be free.
Midway through the conversation, Angel steps onto the stage. She moves with a grace that pulls nearly every eye in the room, fluid and deliberate, like she owns the stage before she even reaches the center.
I watch the subtle shift in everyone’s posture, how everyone stops their conversation to look at her, but it’s Pacheco who draws my attention.
He stops mid-sentence, glass halfway to his lips, eyes glued to her. The sharp, calculating air he always carries evaporates and is replaced with something almost… hungry. He leans forward, elbow on his knee, jaw tight; it’s like she’s the only thing in the world he sees. His eyes don’t waver from her, and there’s a light in his eyes I haven’t seen before, but one I’m very familiar with.
Obsession.
“Who is that?” He’s not asking, he’s commanding to know.
“She’s our girl’s friend—” I begin, but Pacheco cuts me off with a wave of his hand.
“I don’t care who’s friend she is, Valen. I want to know her. Now. Tell me everything you know about her… Everything. Where she comes from, what she does, who she is. This girl,” he leans back slightly, “I want her.”
“I don’t know that much about her. She’s known as Angel here. For all I know, she’s a skilled and dangerous assassin,” I joke, but it falls flat.
Pacheco’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, the club feels smaller. He leans forward. “I don’t care if she’s dangerous. I want her. Nothing else matters. Tell me she’s untouchable, and I’ll kill you just to get to her. Make no mistake, she’s mine if she’ll let me have her.”
I sip my scotch carefully. The conversation has paused completely. Angel, moving across the stage, is unaware she’s been claimed before she even knows who this man is.
Minutes drag. Finally, one of Pacheco’s men approaches him iPad in hand. Pacheco snatches it, eyes flicking between the screen and her. Then he leans back, almost exhaling, a satisfied smirk forming. “She’s cleared, and more than that…” His eyes snap back to Angel, and the obsession is unmistakable. “She’s everything. I want you to do me a favor, Valen. I want you to keep an eye on her. No one touches her, no one even looks without permission.”
“And Lorenzo? I need to protect my girl first, Pacheco.”
“We own the club,” Archer admits, “Angel is looked after, and protected by some of our best men.”
“You do?” My head snaps to his.
“Bought it the week I found out our girl was dancing. I wasn’t taking any chances with her safety.” Archer shrugs, but I know it’s taking a lot for him to admit.
“Angel is one of my wife’s closest friends. We’ll protect her, but Angel is perfectly capable of protecting herself. She’s quite scary when she wants to be.” Elijah tells him, and I want to hit him for claiming Lottie like that.
Pacheco nods. “Understood.”
Lottie glides past a table, laughing lightly with a customer. My gaze locks on her, heart steady beneath the practiced calm. Pacheco’s attention flickers between Angel and the conversation.
“The families want Lorenzo dead,” Pacheco finally says again, bringing us back. “No debate. No hesitation. He’s liability number one. And you, Roman, have their permission. Take care of it however you see fit. The risk is yours, but the reward… peace.”
Elijah nods, calm but alert. Archer’s jaw is tight, but his eyes carry understanding. Will nods in silent approval.
Lottie moves near the bar, collecting tips, unnoticed by most, but visible to me. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t draw attention. Siren. Controlled, lethal in her beauty, and untouchable. My chest rises and falls steadily.
I think about how long I’ve been obsessed with her. How long I’ve circled the edges of her life, keeping her close but never close enough to claim. And now, sitting here in this booth, permission in hand to strike at Lorenzo, it’s impossible not to notice how every thought of her twists in my chest. Every flicker of her hair across her shoulder, the subtle sway of her hips as she walks.
It’s a line I can’t uncross. I know it. I feel it.
I love her. Or maybe it’s obsession. Or maybe they’re the same thing with her. She’s lethal, untouchable, and yet she’s mine in every moment I can stand close enough to watch, to think, to imagine. I imagine her in my arms, safe and defiant. I imagine her smiling at me the way only she does, a flash of warmth behind the armor she’s built. And I can’t tell if it’s my obsession or my heart that clenches every time she moves past me, unaware of the storm she’s stirred in me.
I hate that I want her. Hate that the calm, collected man I’ve honed over decades is unraveling at the sight of her. She doesn’t need me to watch her, doesn’t need my protection—not really. Yet, every instinct screams to guard her, to claim her, to make sure no one touches her, no one even breathes in her direction without my say-so.
It’s insanity.
But maybe that’s what I need, to finally do what should have been done years ago.
The lights over the stage dim slightly, casting a soft glow across Lottie’s skin.
She doesn’t acknowledge us directly, but the way she moves, the way her body tilts and shifts, owns every corner of the club. She starts slow, sliding her hands along her hips, the fabric of her top tightening across her chest before she lifts it over her head.
The music thrums, and I see the way her eyes close, the way her head lulls to the side as she lets it take over her entire body. My chest tightens. Every muscle in me wants to move, to intervene, to claim her like the others can, but I stay seated, watching, memorizing. Every curve, every shadow, every flicker of skin under the lights etches into my mind.
Obsession doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I love her. I need her. I want her.
And every inch of her while she performs for us reinforces that, twisting me tight inside.
Elijah leans forward, voice low, muttering over the hum of the music. “That’s my wife…”
Crew groans next to him, head shaking. Archer’s jaw tightens, eyes dark, but his eyes don’t leave Lottie, not even as his hand comes up to smack Elijah over the back of the head. “Ours dickhead.”
Oscar sits like a statue, hands folded, eyes tracking every movement on stage. He’s enraptured by her… we all are. I can see the tension in all of them, but none of it matters.
Only her. Only Lottie does.
Lottie peels the next layer off, slowly and with control. This isn’t about teasing, not about performing, really—this is hers. Her way of showing us that she’s strong. Each movement, each tilt of her shoulder, each shift of her hips, is all her way of claiming it back. A display of power, mastery… control.
She’s lethal, untouchable, and has all five of us sitting on the edge of our seats waiting until she gives us a command to move.
She’s Siren, alright, in every sense.
I can’t stop thinking about her. About every day that I tortured her, every moment that led to this moment in time right now, and now I need to fight against every instinct I have. To claim her, to keep her safe, to let her know she’s mine.
My obsession, my love, my need… it all blurs together.
Watching her now, I realize it’s more than obsession. It’s a fixation, yes, but it’s also something deeper, something I can’t name without betraying myself.
Everything inside me burns for her.
Lottie Reyes has destroyed me.
Broken me down piece by piece until I was nothing but a broken man laid at her feet, begging her to piece me back together again… and now… Now she owns me completely.
Chapter 33
Elijah
Isit in the kitchen, elbows on the table, staring at the grain in the wood.
The low hum of the refrigerator is the only thing keeping me grounded. My glass sits in front of me, untouched, and my knuckles ache from how hard I keep clenching my fists, desperate to get rid of the tremor in my hands from watching her on that stage.
Every movement she made showed us that she was unbroken and strong.
She wasn’t dancing for us. Not really.
She was reclaiming herself in the only way she knew how to, piece by piece, and we were just witnesses to her rebuilding herself after Lorenzo dared to put his hands on her.
And still I wanted her. God help me, I want her like nothing I’ve ever wanted in my life.
I called her my wife, knowing it would piss the others off, but I couldn’t help myself.
It’s a sickness that’s eaten me alive because she was mine once. Not in a way that was right or fair, but in my head, she was mine and only mine.
Soft footsteps alert me that she’s here, but I don’t look up right away. The tap runs. A glass clinks.
I lift my head, and for a second, I just watch her. The way the low light wraps around her, the way her hair catches against her shoulder. She looks tired… not from the dance, but from everything else.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low.
Her head tilts slightly, “You either, apparently.”
I almost smile. “Not much rest for the damned, Lottie. I thought you knew that.”
It earns me a quiet exhale, that’s a half laugh. Her eyes meet mine, and I swear my chest forgets how to move.
Lottie Reyes.
Alive. Breathing. Sometimes I have to remind myself that she’s not a ghost, or a memory, not one of the hundreds of photographs I made myself sick over.
She’s right in front of me. I push away from the table and stand. “Come with me.”
Her brows draw together, but she doesn’t say no. I think she sees something in my face, the edge I’m trying to hide, the crack that’s been spreading since the moment she stepped back into my life.
