Finally, I can’t take it. I stand, smoothing my skirt, and drift toward the door. I tell myself I’m just stretching my legs, but every step takes me deeper into the mansion’s labyrinth.
The staff are mostly gone or invisible; the security cameras I spot are discreet, half hidden in sconces and crown molding. I keep my head down, breathing slow and quiet, tracing my fingertips along the cold marble banister as I pass.
A hallway leads to a dark wooden door, slightly ajar. The study. Of course. I hesitate, every instinct screaming at me to turn back. But curiosity is sharper than fear. I slip inside.
It’s darker here. The heavy curtains are drawn. The scent of cigars and old paper hangs in the air. Books line the walls, their spines faded to near-black. The desk is perfectly neat, except for one thing: a slim file folder, out of place, half hidden under a sheaf of invoices.
I hesitate, listening. No footsteps, no voices. I reach for the folder, breath shallow, hands shaking. I shouldn’t be doing this. I know that, but I slide the folder free and open it, holding it just close enough to read.
A single photograph stares back at me. Enzo. My brother—alive, unsmiling, standing in some alley lit by the harsh glow of a streetlamp. There’s a timestamp at the bottom corner marking it as the night he disappeared. The rest of the folder is a blur of receipts, security footage stills, a memo in Russian that means nothing to me. My hands tremble harder. My vision wavers.
I feel sick, hot, exposed. I snap the folder shut and shove it back, careful to keep everything exactly as I found it. My mind races. Did Emil take this picture himself? Was he watching Enzo that night, hunting him? The answer twists in my gut, cold and jagged.
A rush of footsteps in the hall. I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs. Voices of staff, maybe Emil himself, returning from his meeting. Panic claws at my throat. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The urge to run is overpowering.
I duck out of the study, moving fast and silent, retracing my steps down the hall. My breath shudders in and out, eyes burning. The house seems to press in around me, every doorway an accusation, every chandelier watching with blind suspicion. I move through room after room, the fine art and velvet and ancient glass blurring past.
I reach the blue salon just as the maid reappears, startled to find me on my feet. “Is everything alright, miss?”
“I just needed some air,” I manage, my voice brittle. “I’m not feeling well. Could you… would you call me a car, please?”
She hesitates, glancing over my shoulder as if expecting Emil to materialize. “Of course. If you’d like to wait—”
“No, thank you,” I interrupt, sharper than intended. I force a smile, willing my hands to stop shaking. “I’ll wait outside.”
She nods, hurrying to fetch her phone. I move to the front doors, the marble floor cold beneath my shoes, the world spinning around me. I press my hand to the doorframe, dragging in the thick night air, desperate to keep from falling apart.
I can’t stay here. I can’t let Emil see me like this, not when I’ve just seen evidence—proof—of a connection between him and Enzo’s last night. If he knows what I’ve found, I’m finished.
A car arrives, idling quietly in the drive. I slip inside, barely meeting the driver’s eyes, and slam the door. As the estate falls away behind me, the full weight of what I’ve seen presses down: the file, the timestamp, my brother’s face in the dark.
Every part of me is trembling with grief, rage, terror braided together. Beneath it all, a dangerous clarity settles in. Emil Sharov is involved. One way or another, I’ll find out what happened to Enzo. I’ll make Emil pay if I have to.
For now, all I can do is escape, and pray my panic didn’t betray me.
***
Later that night, the walls of my room close in around me. I sit hunched over my phone, the only light in the room the blue glow of the screen. I scroll back and forth over the photo I took in Emil’s study, Enzo’s unsmiling face, the cruel timestamp burned into the corner. Each time I look at it, a new wave of nausea threatens to choke me.
My thumb shakes as I pinch the image larger, trying to read meaning in every shadow.
He was there, I think. Emil Sharov was there that night. He knows something. Maybe he did it himself.
I’m so lost in the storm of grief and anger that when my door swings open, I nearly jump out of my skin. The phone fumbles from my hand and lands face down on the coverlet.
I snatch it up just as Matteo strolls in, all casual arrogance, not even pretending he might have interrupted something private.
“Jesus, Matteo, ever heard of knocking?” My voice is too sharp, but he just grins, unbothered.
“Relax, Iz,” he drawls, flopping against the doorframe. “You planning to run away with your phone or what?” His eyes are lazy, flicking over my face, but there’s nothing pointed in histone, no hint of suspicion about Emil, or the club, or anything that matters.
I force my features smooth, adopting the same bored mask I’ve worn for years in this house.
“Just texting Clara. I told you she was being dramatic about that breakup.” I give him a withering look, desperate to keep things normal. “What do you want?”
Matteo pushes off the frame, wandering around my room like he owns the place, picking up a bracelet, setting it back down. “Tomorrow night. Don’t forget the big party at the Pedros’ place.” He throws himself onto the edge of my bed, ignoring my look of annoyance. “Uncle’s orders. Everyone’s expected to make an appearance.”
I roll my eyes, feigning indifference. “Another excuse for old men to get drunk and tell war stories. Can’t wait.”
