Twenty minutes later, Claudia sat at the dining table, swinging her legs as she ate wontons. Every so often, her gaze drifted to the living room, where the men were bandaging Sterling's wounds. Gone was the clingy, shameless man who'd followed her home. The Sterling sitting there now carried an edge of cold command—cool, efficient, completely in control. Not wanting to overhear anything she shouldn't, Claudia had put on headphones. Still, the air told her enough—their conversation was serious. And she was right. "Did they catch the traitor?" Sterling asked. Clint nodded. "It was Charles. He was working with Mr. Henry." The Romero family was sprawling—and messy. Donovan Romero, the old patriarch, had lived a colorful life, fathering three sons and a daughter with his first wife: Leon, Quinton, Waylon, and Macy. Then came the illegitimate ones, later taken in: Kenneth, Henry, Jackson, and the youngest, Hailey. And those were just the ones who were acknowledged. There were plenty more out there, nameless and scattered. Leon had already died in an early power struggle, leaving behind his widow Yvonne and their unborn son, Simon. The second son—Sterling's father—had been paralyzed four years ago and was long gone from the family's power circle. Nobody dared talk about how it happened. As for Uncle Waylon, rumor had it he betrayed the family for a woman and had been exiled ever since. Macy had married into the Lane family, another old house, but her marriage was a battlefield of constant fights.In short, the "legitimate" branch hadn't exactly fared well. The rest? Even worse. Maybe because that whole generation tore each other apart, by the end, none of them managed to hold on to real power. Instead, it was the grandson—Sterling—who rose above them all. The moment he showed his teeth, he crushed every restless faction with lightning precision and cemented himself as heir. They called him the golden boy, but the truth was, Donovan's lingering presence was the only thing keeping the title symbolic. In reality, Sterling already ran the Romero empire. And his reach went far beyond Romero Corp. Charles was one of the enemies he'd made overseas. Apparently, Sterling's ruthless resource grabs had pushed the man too far. Charles had hated him enough to blow his own cover—risking everything to kill him in Dracovia. And the one who'd leaked Sterling's movements this time? Henry. Henry's mother had once been Donovan's favorite, which was the only reason Henry had been accepted into the family in the first place. But that same favor had poisoned him with ambition. He'd dreamed of carving out a place for himself—only to have it all ripped away by a younger man. Of course he couldn't stand that. "Should I take him out?" Clint asked quietly. Sterling's eyes went cold. “No. Not yet. Let them stew. We'll flush out all the moles at once. Keep a close watch on Tyson. When the time comes, we'll send Uncle Henry a gift." Tyson Romero—Henry's only son. And nothing cut deeper than a blade aimed at the heart.Clint understood instantly. A faint chill ran down his spine. After all these years, how had Henry still not realized? Sterling was not the kind of man who forgave. Cross him, and he'd ruin you—slowly, completely, and for life. … The talk wound down. David finished dressing Sterling's wounds, blinking sleepily. "Not bad," he muttered. "These killers weren't as sharp as the last batch. Not one hit a vital spot." For most people, those injuries would've been catastrophic. But for Sterling, unless death was guaranteed, it barely counted. "Still…" David's gaze slid toward Claudia, who was calmly eating at the table. "Cough, cough… Mr. Romero, I'm just saying—even if you're fine, rest is crucial. Maybe, uh, take it easy for a while?" "Cough!" Clint nearly choked. Sterling's cold expression froze mid-glare, his sharp eyes cutting toward the doctor, who immediately looked way too innocent. David straightened, feigning professionalism. "I'm serious. This is about your long-term happiness. Fighting through injuries isn't exactly… enjoyable." "Get out," Sterling said flatly. "Eh?" David blinked, but Clint was already dragging him toward the door. “Mr. Romero, we'll take our leave now. Please take care of yourself." He even flashed Claudia a polite, apologetic smile before hustling out. There were plenty of places for their boss to recover—why insist on staying in a shoebox apartment? Clint didn't know, and he sure as hell wasn't going to ask. Smart men knew when to shut up. Still, in his mind, one thing was clear: Sterling Romero, the Reaper himself, had turned schemer.The moment Clint recognized Claudia as that woman—the one his boss had rescued the other night—he'd nearly choked on his own tongue. It all made sense. The Reaper had caught feelings. Injury or not, this was a textbook case of using a wound as an excuse to linger. Not that Sterling would admit it. Because, for once, he was actually innocent. Tonight had really been an accident. After shaking his pursuers, he'd followed his instincts toward the mountains, killed two more men, ditched his car, and gone on foot. He'd planned to rest in an abandoned courtyard—but fate had other plans. He'd stumbled right into that same Rosebud from before. The first time, she'd been sharp but fragile, pitiful even. But tonight? Beneath her calm exterior, he'd seen fire raging behind her eyes. And again, she'd put on one hell of a show. A beauty—mad, burning, radiant in the flames. Following her home had been pure impulse. "Where do I stay?" Sterling asked now, walking up to her and plucking the headphones off her ears. Her faint look of disappointment at Clint's exit didn't escape him. "Don't fool yourself," he said with a quiet laugh. "I came back with you. You really think your enemies will just let you walk, no matter how innocent you pretend to be?" Expressionless, Claudia jabbed a finger into his chest. "Keep your distance." As if she didn't know exactly who had brought all this chaos into her life. Sterling smiled again, unbothered.He glanced around the small apartment. "There's only one room." Her place—bought with her own money—was tiny. No guest room. No study. "What do you think?" she said dryly, pointing at the sofa. "That's your spot." "So harsh?" His lips curved. "Aren't you afraid I'll expose your little arson secret?" "Go ahead. Even the victims can't do anything. What good would it do you to play hero?" He wasn't really threatening her, but her cool defiance made him grin. A little wolf that bites—but not without purpose. They bickered like schoolkids over who got the bed until her phone rang. Claudia picked it up. The triumphant smirk on her face faded, replaced by bitter irony. “Well. Speak of the devil. The real victim's on the line." Somewhere outside, unnoticed, dawn had already broken. The Lancaster family had finally learned their old house had burned to the ground.