I watched Leviticus, my gaze unwavering, a silent dare hidden beneath my outward calm. I would not flinch—not for him, not for anyone. The shadows stretched across the walls, flickering with the movement of the city’s glow, making the room feel smaller, the ceiling somehow lower. I wondered if he felt it too—the press of history between us, old grudges lurking beneath civility. He knew the price of challenging my family. He’d crossed us once before and barely escaped with his reputation intact. There was a scar beneath his expensive suit, one I’d put there myself.
This was not his first lesson, but perhaps it would be his last.
I let the silence thicken, refusing to feed his need for control. I didn’t—couldn’t—care about him or his daughter, not with the weight of my own family’s expectations smothering any hope for softer feelings. His desperation stank more than the smoke; he’d sent his daughter into the lions’ den to pay for his cowardice, and now he wanted to rewrite history with blame. My jaw tightened, a memory flickering behind my eyes—another night, another debt owed, the taste of regret bitter on my tongue.
“My Kate is a good girl. She was a virgin.” His voice was rough, nearly trembling, pride and loss twisting each word. “Now, she’s ruined.”
The accusation pulsed between us, but I met it with a cold certainty, the truth sharp as glass. “And you are to blame for that. Not me.”
Leviticus’s fist clenched, knuckles whitening as he fought to contain a sharp retort. His nostrils flared; for a heartbeat, I thought he might launch himself across the table. Instead, he forced his breathing slow, measured—an old habit, perhaps, from years spent mastering his temper for the public eye. The golden light from the chandelier flickered above us, castingjagged shadows that danced across his face and made the lines of age and worry starker.
“You will take responsibility,” he said, his words more command than plea. “My family’s honor requires it.”
His declaration stirred old ghosts. For a moment, Leviticus’s words echoed memories of my own family’s shattered reputation—a reminder of how quickly respect could be lost in our world, how a single action could ripple down generations. I tilted my head, studying him with lazy indifference, but a flicker of understanding stirred beneath my composure. He wanted me to bend, to offer penance for a situation he’d set into motion.
Yet I would not concede ground so easily.
“Honor? That’s an expensive word, Barbari. Are you sure you can afford it?” My tone was soft, but the threat beneath it was cold as the marble beneath my hands.
He stared at me, fury and desperation battling in his eyes, his posture stiff and unyielding against the plush leather of his chair. I didn’t look away. In our world, desperate men were dangerous, more so when cornered by shame. Barbari had played the game—and lost. Now, it was his daughter who bore the cost, and both of us knew there would be no simple reckoning tonight.
Leviticus’s lips curled in a sneer at my taunt, but he mastered himself with effort, knuckles tightening around the edge of the table. The air between us crackled; the faint tick of the antique clock on the wall near us underscored his restraint. “You think this is a game?” he spat, his words tinged with the stale bitterness of regret and humiliation. “You parade your indifference after what you did at the council—my family’s name dragged through mud and gutter alike. Even now, you act as if the stain never touched you.” His voice trembled, caught between fury and the ache of disgrace that had festered since that long, ruinous night.
I set my glass down with a precise clink, the sound sharp against the hush. Chilled condensation slicked my palm; I welcomed the bite, savoring the icy clarity it brought. My gaze remained fixed on him, unblinking—a silent challenge that pressed on the old wound between us, widening the rift with every unspoken accusation.
“Everything has a price, Barbari,” I hissed, my breath frosting my words with venom. “Even reputations. I didn’t invite your secrets into the council. You did.” The memory of whispered threats and shattered trust lingered—both of us knew how skillfully alliances could fracture, how debts could build between friends and rivals alike.
My words lingered, thick as the spiced wine fogging the air, tension vibrating between us like the low hum of city traffic below. Across the table, I saw his composure falter, a flicker of doubt clouding the arrogance in his eyes.
“I want to see Cesar,” he demanded, the plea barely masked by bravado. A tremor betrayed him, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the tabletop. Somewhere in the corridor, footsteps echoed—reminding us both that we were never truly alone or safe from listening ears.
I raised a brow, my lips curling in a slow, deliberate smirk. “Want?”
He met my gaze, jaw tense. “Demand.”
The word dropped between us, a gauntlet thrown, but I saw the vulnerability beneath the defiance—a man scrambling to reclaim ground lost in a single, catastrophic choice.
Shaking my head, I let a cold laugh slip. “There’s that word again. Tell me, Barbari, why send a lamb into the lion’s den? The debt was always yours.” I let my implication hang, knowing full well that the game we played tonight was only the latest in a series of shifting battles—each of us both predator and prey,haunted by the consequences of old alliances and betrayals that had already drawn too much blood.
Leviticus’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of pain momentarily cracking his steely façade. For all his bluster, I could see the raw edge of fear—he wasn’t just fighting for pride, but for the last shreds of his family’s future. “The debt was mine,” he admitted, voice barely more than a rasp. His jaw clenched, as if holding back words he’d never dare speak aloud. “I had no choice.” He hesitated, a tremor betraying the certainty in his words. “You exploit weakness. You always have.”
I let his accusation hang in the air, unbothered, as I reached once more for my wineglass.
This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to cast me as the villain. My gaze drifted to the window, watching city lights blur and flicker—reminding myself just how many times men like him had handed me their secrets, then cursed me for using them. “Weakness isn’t my concern, Barbari,” I replied coolly, swirling the wine in my glass. “Leverage is. You gave me the means—don’t blame the lion for what the lamb cannot survive.”
Leviticus drew a ragged breath, the lines in his brow deepening. His hand trembled as he reached to steady his glass, unwilling to let me see just how close he was to breaking. “No one will touch her now,” he said, his words thick with regret and something close to desperation. “She’s unmarriageable.”
I shrugged, letting indifference settle over me like armor.
“Not my concern,” I replied, voice flat.
He glared at me, anguish flickering in his eyes. “And what about the child? It’s yours,” Leviticus pressed, his voice cracking just enough to betray the weight of what he was asking. For all his posturing, this was no longer about vengeance, but the hope that I might claim some responsibility for the mess he made.
I narrowed my eyes at him, a sneer twisting my lips. My grip tightened on the stem of my wineglass as I set it downwith a decisive click—a sharp laugh escaping before I could stop it. The memory of his betrayal was still fresh, hot as the wine burning down my throat. “You expect me to believe that?” I leaned forward, pinning him with my stare. “You knew what a war against the Vitale empire would cost, Leviticus, and you lost. Admit it. A child was never part of your calculation—only your escape, and now you will reap what you sowed.”
Leviticus’s façade finally cracked, regret bleeding through the brittle shell of his defiance. His voice trembled, rough and bare, as he spoke—not with the bravado he’d worn like armor, but with the raw desperation of a man who’d gambled everything and lost.
“You think I haven’t paid enough for my mistakes?” he rasped, each word pressed through clenched teeth, his anguish so palpable I could almost taste it in the still, wine-thickened air. “Every desperate act—every lie, every debt—was for my family. I was a fool to believe I could shield them from what I’d set in motion.” His gaze flickered to the window, eyes haunted by memories of a son who paid the ultimate price of his father’s greed, a daughter whose innocence he’d shattered, and now an unborn child whose future now hung in the balance. The fear in his voice was sharp: not just of ruin, but of the legacy of shame he’d leave behind. He feared the loss of his daughter’s hope, the weight of her unmarriageable reputation, and—perhaps worst of all—the knowledge that he could not undo what he’d done.
