Rome whistled low. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”
Luca smirked. “A girl finally marked him?”
I didn’t say a word. None of them would understand. Not unless I told them what it was like to have her slid it onto my finger like it meant something.
I kept digging.
Ten minutes later, I saw it, half-sunken in the dirt. I grabbed it. Wiped it once with my thumb. Slid it back onto my middle finger.
Perfect fit. Just like the night she put it there.
Rome made a noise of disgust. “Thank fuck.Please tell me that was worth it.”
I stood slowly, brushing dust off my pants, staring down at the ring. “It was.”
“You ever going to explain who gave it to you?” Rome tilted his head. They were all watching me.
“Doesn’t matter,” I flexed my fingers once, checking the fit. The soil had dulled the shine, but the weight was right.
I hadn’t taken it off once since she gave it to me. And it fitted my hand better than any weapon.
He rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”
“We have a gun run in two hours,” I changed the subject.
Bastion tapped the roof of the car. “I’ll take the east tunnels and the port route. We’ve got Kingsley product coming in masked through the storage manifests.”
“Underground fight night starts in an hour.” Rome swung his door open. “Got a new tattoo artist in town doing masked bloodline crests. Gonna be a packed.”
“Make sure no one passes out mid-ink again,” Luca said, going to Bastion’s car. “Casino shift’s heating up. Syndicate deals on the line tonight—Nik’s sitting in for the vetting.”
Nikolai nodded once, already distracted, his phone to his ear.
I checked my watch. “Gun exchange in the tunnels at eleven. Bastion, meet me at Entry B. No outsiders.”
They all nodded and disappeared. The moment the car door shut behind me, the silence hit.
It had been weeks.
Three weeks, five days, twelve hours. I knew because I’d checked the phone log. Once. Maybe more. Madeline had sparked my obsession tendencies.
I told myself she was busy. Dynasty girls always were. I looked down at the ring again. The only thing I’d ever been given without asking.
Fuck it. Maybe I should message her first. I pulled out my phone, stared at the screen.
Typed her name.
Deleted it.
Typed it again.
Then shut the screen off. Fuck it.
I opened my contacts and scrolled until I found the boutique line.
It rang twice. “Rousseau,” the assistant answered. “This is Camille.”
“It’s Vincent Crow.”
