He laughs. “Yeah, well, you’re the guest of honor this time, apparently.” His smile turns sly. “Dad and Shawn Pedro have been talking. Guess who they want to marry you off to?”
My stomach sinks, but I force myself to look unimpressed. “Please. If I had a dollar for every time someone tried to auction me off at a party, I’d have left this circus years ago.”
Matteo shrugs, mock sympathy on his face. “Just don’t be late. Uncle gets twitchy when you make him look bad. Pedro’s kid is even worse than last year. He’s been sniffing around all week.” He stands, stretching. “You’re the family’s best bargaining chip. Try to act like it.”
I snort, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah, princess of the meat market. TellDadI’ll wear something extra frilly.”
He grins, blowing me a kiss as he heads for the door. “Don’t stab anyone until after dessert. That’s all I’m asking.” With that, he disappears, leaving the door swinging behind him.
I exhale, pressing my knuckles into my thighs to steady myself. If Matteo saw me with Emil the other night, he’s hiding it well. His casual arrogance soothes my nerves, though I watch every flicker of his expression for the truth. But no, he’s just Matteo, bored and hungry for drama, nothing more.
When the hallway is quiet again, I pull my phone back into my lap. The photo is still there. Enzo’s face. The alley, the timestamp, the silent accusation.
My anger blazes, burning away the last threads of doubt. All this time, Emil Sharov—my enemy, my family’s oldest rival—was there with my brother the night he vanished.
The more I replay it, the clearer it becomes: Emil isn’t just a bystander. He’s involved, maybe responsible. I clench my fists, jaw aching with the effort of not screaming.
I should hate him. I do hate him. Every lesson drilled into me since childhood, every whispered warning about the Russians, every punishment for stepping out of line, they all point to this moment. He’s the threat I’ve been raised to fear.
Deep down, something else twists inside me. Not just fear or fury, but the memory of standing in Emil’s study—the sharp cut of his voice, the way he watched me like I was a secret only he could solve.
I remember the heat in his eyes, the way my skin prickled with awareness when he called me Bella. I shove it all down, telling myself it’s only hatred, only the high of the chase that keeps me up tonight.
I scroll through my texts, thumbing restlessly, wanting distraction. The night presses in. I want to scream, to cry, to hit something until the ache in my chest goes quiet.
Then my phone buzzes, It’s a new message, the contact unknown but the words unmistakable.
Dinner this week? I’ve got a few new pieces I’d like your opinion on. –E.
For a second, I freeze, panic rising. Emil, reaching out. The timing is cruel. My family expects me at the Pedros’ party tomorrow. There’s no way to sneak away without drawing suspicion, and even if I could, I don’t trust myself to sit across from him and keep the rage from boiling over.
I type a reply, forcing my fingers to steady:Sorry, can’t make it. Not feeling well. Rain check?
He responds almost instantly.Of course. Next time.
I drop the phone onto the bed, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes until I see stars. Tomorrow I’ll have to play the dutiful niece, the pawn in whatever game my uncle and Shawn Pedro have devised. I’ll smile, I’ll make small talk, I’ll pretend not to notice the way everyone circles around me like vultures.
After that—after I’ve fulfilled my obligations—I know exactly what I have to do. I’ll get close to Emil Sharov. I’ll make him trust me, make him confess the truth, whatever it costs.
The photo glows in the darkness. Enzo’s face. My enemy’s shadow beside him. Fury burns hot and bright, almost drowning out the fear and the flicker of curiosity I can’t quite extinguish.
I’ll get my answers. No matter what it takes.
Chapter Twelve - Emil
Her message lands just past noon, plain as glass:Sorry, can’t make it. Not feeling well. Rain check?
For a moment I stare at the words, letting the thin excuse settle. The last time I saw her, she left my house without warning: no call, no note, nothing but the echo of hurried footsteps and the faintest trace of her perfume in the hall.
Now this polite dismissal, cool and impersonal. She’s slipping away. I feel it as a physical thing, a crack in the foundation of a game I thought I understood.
I don’t text back right away. The part of me that handles women—the easy, detached part—knows I should let her go, let her stew, see if she comes back. I’m too restless for strategy tonight. Something isn’t right. She’s hiding again, and I want to know why.
Before I can dwell on it, my phone buzzes with a new message.Get to the Pedro party tonight. Important. –L.
Lukyan’s tone is all business, no room for refusal.
I curse under my breath. Of all our new friends, the Pedros are the ones I trust least. They’re too slick, too eager, too hungry for a piece of what doesn’t belong to them.
