“Quite a leap, from a small hotel to a private estate like this.” I let the words hang, relishing the subtle way her shoulders tense, how her jaw clenches fractionally. “Better pay, I assume?”
“I needed the money.” Her voice is firmer now, more defensive, but she’s not looking at me—her gaze remains fixed on her plate, on the careful, precise movements of her fork and knife as she cuts through her meat.
I imagine she’d be pleased to slide that knife between my ribs instead. The thought makes me smile despite myself.
“Smart.” I take a sip of wine, letting the velvety taste linger on my tongue. “But I’ve always wondered... whythisestate? You don’t feel uncomfortable being one of the few non-Albanians here?”
Her fork hovers for a moment. A slow, almost imperceptible breath expands her chest. “It was the first place that accepted me. And like I said, I needed the pay.”
Quick thinking, but not entirely convincing.
My father clears his throat pointedly, giving me a mild glare that clearly saysback off. “Roan, enough with the interrogation. Let the girl eat in peace. The staffing company did a thorough background check on all the maids they supply to us.”
“Just getting to know her,Atë.” My gaze doesn't leave Mia’s face. “We wouldn’t want a stranger with sinister intentions under our roof, would we?”
Her gaze flicks up, meeting mine, and there’s somethingthere—a quiet, simmering anger beneath her mask of politeness. But it’s gone in a blink, buried again.
A shame. I’d like to see what she’s like when that anger breaks free.
The rest of dinner is quiet, punctuated byAtë’s occasional attempts at small talk and Mia’s careful, measured replies, while my gaze tracks her every movement—how her lashes lower when I speak, the subtle shift of her throat when she swallows, the tiny spark of defiance that flares and dies with every question I ask.
When the plates are cleared, she stands up so quickly she nearly knocks over her water glass, murmuring a polite but hasty thank you before practically fleeing from the room.
I don’t stop her.
I don’t need to.
I lean back in my chair, swirling the last of my wine contemplatively, a satisfied smile curling my lips. I don’t even have to text Dhimitër to confirm the job is done—dinner took over an hour, and knowing my efficient friend, he completed his task within the first twenty minutes.
While we ate, Dhimitër was in her room, slipping small GPS trackers into the sides of all her shoes. The trackers are small, subtle, virtually undetectable unless you’re specifically looking for them.
So tonight, or any other night when she decides to slip out again, I’ll receive an immediate alert. And I’ll know exactly where she goes.
Checkmate,Mia.
It’s only a matter of time before I unravel all your secrets.
9
KATIE
I never should have agreed to that dinner. It was a catastrophic mistake.
Sitting there while Roan picked me apart over delicious lamb chops and chicken soup, me with my lone glass of water while they enjoyed whiskey—because I needed to keep my wits sharp. Because one slip, one unguarded moment, and he’d have me.
A bite of guilt pierces through me as I remember Afrim coming to my defense.He shouldn’t have done that.Roan is right to be suspicious of me. Everything he suspects is true—I am lying, I am hiding something, I am exactly the kind of threat he thinks I am.
But Afrim doesn’t know that.
My guilt presses heavier with every reminder of how kind he’s been. How he’s made the past few weeks at the estate almost bearable with his light banter and our chess games. He thinks I’m just some poor girl whose shitty luck in life forced her into domestic work in the fucking 21st century.
A sharp twist in my stomach threatens to surface, but I push it down ruthlessly. There’s no other choice. My sister—her wellbeing—is all that matters. It has to. I can’t get attached to the Albanians the same way I did to Emilia. I can’t.
This has always been my problem; this desperate need to love and be loved unconditionally.
“That’s never going to happen, dumbass. Get with the program,” I mutter bitterly, pushing the manhole cover aside with a low grunt as I climb out of the sewer line by the now-familiar shores of the East River.
The cool night air slaps my face and cuts through my clothes, dragging out the smell of rot that clings stubbornly to me. I brush at my jeans, but what’s the point? It’s stuck—just like the fucking lies I keep telling. I hate it. Hate all of this. Hate lying to kind old men who treat me like I’m worth something. And hate even more that the man I can’t seem to fool happens to be stupidly hot and way too intense for my sanity.
