A man leaned forward from his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest covered in tight black fabric. His buzz cut made his cheekbones look sharper, and there was a bold tattoo curling up his neck.
Three dotted lines.
Strange for a tattoo.
His eyes were dark, hooded, and his mouth twisted in something between distaste and provocation.
“Didn’t know you brought souvenirs now, Vitale. That a new hobby, or just a desperate one?”
Bianchi laughed, and I suddenly wanted to strangle him for some unknown reason. What was there to laugh about? Did he tell some joke?
Zagreus’s thumb stroked my inner thigh, and he didn’t even look at the man. His attention stayed on me, his jaw ticked once before he finally tilted his head lazily toward the speaker.
As if the man’s words had taken a long, unworthy journey to reach his ears.
“I’d be careful if I were you, Victor.”
Victor scoffed, visibly enjoying as he tipped his glass at Bianchi. “Papi’s threatening now, huh?”
Zagreus turned back to me, brushing my hair away from my neck with the back of his hand. “Ignore them. They’re dogs. They bark when they smell something valuable.”
I nodded and looked around the room again.
They were all men of power. You didn’t need to know their names to feel it. Each one sat like they were the protagonists in a movie, only they could direct. Their presence bled through the air. So arrogant, untamed, quietly chaotic, disturbing, and amused.
I scanned them, barely moving my head.
The one sitting straight across from me, with the palest blue blues I’d ever seen and dark hair slicked back. He didn’t blink. Kept his pale eyes on the cards scattered around the table and played unconsciously with one in his fingers.
To be honest, he was the kind of man who would slice you a thousand times and scatter your pieces on different planets for the sport.
Beside him sat Bianchi. With phone in hand, hunched now, bored all of a sudden as he typed something furiously.
Now that the light touched his features, I realised I’d seen him before.
A magazine cover? On TV? I couldn’t remember.
But I knew one thing: men like him didn’t sit in rooms like this unless they were the ones who built it.
The man on my left, who hadn’t said a word, had a woman draped on his lap. No, not draped. Draped would be too delicate a word. She was perched there like a queen, legs folded and one hand resting on his chest. She didn’t look afraid of this room.
She owned it in her own way.
She was stunning. Her long, dark hair parted at one side, cascading like spilled ink down her back. Her skin was olive gold, like she’d been carved from an ancient sun-kissed marble, glowing under the dim light. Her eyes, deep-brown and burning, flicked across the room like daggers. She looked as if she’d set fire to this table with a flick of her wrist if anyone dared to cross her.
And her dress…
Or what looked like a dress.
It was deep red. Draped across her body in a way I hadn’t seen before, flowing silk with little details, threads woven through the borders, wrapping around her waist and shoulder, one end trailing behind her like a secret. She looked like war. All blood and elegance.
And I hated how beautiful she was.
Sinfully, terrifyingly beautiful.
Then my gaze fell upon the man sitting diagonally across, toward the far right end of the table, who looked East Asian. Maybe Korean, Japanese, or Chinese? I couldn’t be sure. His jawline was sharp enough to cut diamonds, black hair slicked back in a rough, low ponytail, and his dark eyes focused on the girl beside him, the one I failed to notice.
She was sitting properly in her own chair, but close. Very close. Head bowed.
