[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 124: Kill shot

Cyan’s good hand connected with my bicep with surprising force.

"What the... "

SMACK. He hit me again, harder this time.

"Why would you DO that?!" he yelled.

SMACK.

"Stop hitting me! I have a concussion!" I grabbed his wrist, pinning his hand against his thigh.

"Good! It should!" Cyan yanked his hand free, his eyes flashing. "What is WRONG with you?! Why do you keep making things WORSE?!"

"He doesn’t need to worry about me, Cyan," I said, turning my gaze to the window. "He’s better off without the drama."

Cyan stared at me, looking truly incredulous. "Are you SERIOUS right now? You think he cares about the ’drama’?"

"He has better things to do than babysit a man he claims to hate... "

"That’s BULLSHIT, Cassian, and you know it." Cyan sat up, glaring at me. "That boy likes you. More than he lets on. He looks at you like you’re the sun and he’s a planet In a dying orbit. It’s pretty obvious to everyone but you. You’re just choosing to be blind."

I looked away, the image of Noah’s tear-filled eyes burned into my mind. "It’s better this way."

"Better for who?"

"For him," I snapped. "He doesn’t need to be around someone like me."

Cyan laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. "There it is. The classic Cassian Wolfe self-sabotage. You don’t actually believe that, do you? That you’re some monster he needs protection from?"

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

"Why are you being so mean to that cute little potato?" Cyan asked, his voice quieter, almost sad.

"Because I’m removing myself," I whispered. "Like he wanted."

Cyan studied my face for a long beat. "You’re scared. You’re terrified that if you let him in, he’ll see that there’s actually a person under all that armor, and then you won’t know how to be the ’Wolfe’ anymore."

I said nothing, because what was there to say? He was right.

After a moment, Cyan sighed dramatically, his tone shifting into the exaggerated, playful cadence he used to mask his own insecurities.

"My feelings are hurt," he said, pouting.

I looked at him, confused by the sudden pivot. "What?"

"Noah didn’t check on me," he said, gesturing to his cast. "I was in the same accident. I’m the one with the broken arm and the ruined silk shirt. And he didn’t even ask about me. It’s devastating. My ego may never recover."

Then, he paused, his expression turning thoughtful.

"Although..." he mused. "He probably thinks I stole you from him. So that checks, I guess."

I chuckled. "Stole me?"

"Yeah." Cyan looked at me. "He probably thinks we’re together. Sleeping together. Which, I mean, we did. Once. In a moment of mutual despair."

The memory flashed back... That night and my desperate attempt to feel something other than cold.

"So he probably hates me now," Cyan sighed. "Great. Another person who thinks I’m a homewrecker."

I felt a twist of guilt. "That’s not... I didn’t tell him that."

Cyan waved it off. "It’s fine. I get it. If I saw a guy like me hanging around a guy like you, I’d think the same thing. I’m a catch, Cassian. Obviously."

Cyan shifted gears abruptly, his business mode snapping into place. "So. The investigation. What do we actually have?"

I welcomed the change in topic with a sense of relief. I reached for my briefcase, which the driver had brought in, and pulled out a tablet and several folders.

"I got some information from the suite before I left. CCTV footage from the intersection, financial transactions from the local shell companies, and movement patterns."

Cyan’s eyes sharpened. "What kind of patterns?"

"Linked to the Lorenzo family operations," I said, spreading the printed surveillance photos across the bed. "License plates, timestamps of the truck’s movements forty-eight hours prior to the crash."

Cyan studied the documents, his mind working with the clinical, analytical precision that made him my best asset. Behind the glitter and the dramatics, Cyan had a strategic mind that was twice as dangerous as any gunman.

"The method is interesting," Cyan said, pointing to the police report. "A trailer truck. No plates. Cameras down. It’s very specific."

"Agreed," I said. "But it’s not the Lorenzo style. They like to make a statement. They want people to know they were there. This was meant to look like an accident, even if it failed."

"Too messy," Cyan agreed. "Lorenzo would have used a sniper or a more calculated move. This... this feels different. Sloppy."

"Which points to the Vincenti family," I said.

Cyan nodded. "But not the old guard. They’re too traditional for this kind of risk."

I pulled out photos of the crash site. "Look at the angle of impact. It was calculated. It was meant to hit the driver’s side at the exact moment you crossed the meridian. It was a kill shot."

"But it was also reckless," Cyan added. "If the cameras hadn’t been sabotaged, they’d have the driver on five different angles within minutes. It was a high-stakes gamble."

"Exactly," I said. "Someone young. Someone impulsive. Someone who wants to prove they have the balls to take out a Wolfe in broad daylight."

Cyan leaned forward, wincing as his cast bumped the edge of the table. "The new Vincenti Don. Emilio."

I nodded. "I remember him. From years ago. Before he went into hiding."

My mind flashed back to a younger man... Emilio Vincenti. The man who’s ego couldn’t accept that I beat him. He was the real reason this blood feud had reignited. He was hot-headed, reckless, and hungry for a brand of revenge that the older generation would seem too expensive to pursue but did anyways.

"He was barely twenty then," I said. "Arrogant. He wanted to make a name for himself by doing what his father couldn’t."

"And now he’s Don," Cyan said. "With all that power and a decade-long vendetta against you."

"He won’t stop," I predicted. "This was just the first move. He wanted to see if I was as untouchable as the rumors say."

"You think he’ll try again?"

"I know he will. He’s young and reckless. Killing me wouldn’t just be revenge; it would be his coronation."

"When?" Cyan asked, his voice tight.

I looked at the timeline, the patterns of the gala invitations and the media coverage. "The gala."

Cyan blinked. "What? That’s in forty-eight hours. It’s high-profile, high-security. There will be hundreds of witnesses."

"Which makes it a perfect stage," I said. "He wants the world to see him win. He wants the boldest move possible. He won’t attack the car again. He’ll try something else. Something bold."

Cyan looked at the documents and sighed. "The problem is proof. All of this is circumstantial. We have the ’what’ and the ’who,’ but nothing directly ties Emilio to that truck. Italian families are too careful with their intermediaries."

"So we’ve hit a wall," Cyan said.

"For now," I replied, my voice turning cold. "But if I’m right about the gala... he’ll make a move."