For a moment, there was a silence between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. The bond thrummed faintly, a steady undercurrent that neither of us acknowledged.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and the sincerity in her voice caught me off guard.
I nodded, not trusting myself to respond. This wasn’t just about her—it couldn’t be. This was about keeping her safe, keeping control. But as I watched her turn back to the window, her silhouette framed by the city skyline, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting. Something I wasn’t ready for.
27
VIVIAN
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of pastries and fruit Raffaele had ordered. I sat at the dining table, chewing a piece of croissant slathered with butter and fancy honey. Across from me, Raffaele sipped his black coffee in silence, his eyes fixed on the view of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling fancy-ass windows.
His emotions reached me through the bond. He was at ease, but it was layered with something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Or regret. I wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t the storm of tension I was used to, and I wasn’t about to question it.
“This is wonderful,” I said, gesturing to the spread. “I didn’t know you had such excellent taste in breakfast.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “I have excellent taste in everything.”
“Exactly the response I would expect from an ass like you,” I muttered, rolling my eyes as I popped a grape into my mouth.
He chuckled. “I’m going to take a shower. Make yourself at home.”
“Sure,” I said casually, though my curiosity had already started to simmer. I eyed him as he walked down the hall, mygaze drifting over his form. Moments later, the sound of water running echoed through the penthouse.
The second I was sure he was out of earshot, I stood, my chair scraping softly against the floor.Make yourself at home.Well, I intended to do just that.
This was the human world,hishuman world. I couldn’t wrap my head around Raffaele Gallanti—The Shadow, ruthless magical mafia lord—having a secret sanctuary in Manhattan. What else was he hiding?
I started in the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers. Nothing remarkable—plates, fancy glasses, a drawer full of takeout menus and cigars. Sighing, I moved on to the next.
My fingers brushed against cool glass as I opened another cabinet, revealing a collection of alcohol. Bottles of whiskey, vodka, rum—each label more elaborate than the last. I picked one up, turning it over in my hands. It was sleek, the label embossed with gold lettering that screamed wealth and decadence. Of course he had backup liquor.
I pressed my lips into a thin line and put the bottle back. The more I searched, the more I realized how little there was to find. This place was immaculate, but empty in a way that felt intentional. No personal touches, no photographs, no sign that anyone really lived here.
Who is this man?I thought in frustration. As much as I wanted to hate him, the bond pulled at me, muddying everything with its constant hum of shared emotions.
The sound of the front door opening made me freeze. My heart leapt into my throat, panic surging as I realized there was no way Raffaele could’ve finished his shower already. My mind raced through possibilities—his guards, his father, some other threat.
Footsteps echoed softly through the penthouse, and I turned toward the source. A woman stepped into view, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
She was stunning. Tall and elegant, with long black hair that fell in waves down her back and dark eyes that glinted with intelligence. Her skin was flawless, her features so striking it was impossible not to stare. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine—or walking out of Raffaele’s bedroom.
“Oh.” She grimaced and glanced around. “Oh my gods, I’m so sorry. Is Raffy here?”
Raffy. My stomach twisted uncomfortably at the nickname, the casual familiarity in her tone grating against my nerves. She knew him. Knew him well enough to call himRaffy—a name that sounded absurdly playful for someone as sharp-edged as Raffaele.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, my voice coming out more clipped than I intended. “He’s in the shower.”
She nodded, a polite smile gracing her lips. “Thanks. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… Well, I thought he might be here. I saw his car in the garage.”
She made her way to the fridge and poured herself a glass of orange juice, as if this were her home, not his. Or mine.
“So,” she said, turning back to me, the glass in her hand. “You must be...?”
I hesitated, unsure what to say.The woman he kidnapped? His reluctant wife? The one who has no idea what the fuck is going on in his life?None of those answers felt right—or safe.
“Vivian,” I said finally, keeping my tone neutral. “And you are?”
“Eva,” she said, her smile widening.
