He paused, glancing back.
"What happens if I can't pull this off?"
The smirk vanished. For a moment, Dimitri looked almost serious—which was more unsettling than anything else he could've done.
"Don't disappoint him, Rocco." His voice was low. Quiet. "I've been in his little secret room at Crescent Manor. Believe me." His dark eyes held mine. "You don't want to go there."
He turned and headed down the stairs without waiting for a response.
I stood in the doorway, heart pounding, and tried to remember how to breathe.
I locked the door out of habit. Not that I owned anything worth stealing—except for the suits Angelo had bought me. And honestly, if someone wanted to break in and take those, they could have them.
Dimitri opened the back door of the limo and I slid onto the leather seat. The interior was cold, the air conditioning cranked up against the New Orleans humidity. I stared out the tinted window as we pulled away from the Mardi Gras Hotel.
Get it together.
After tonight, I could go back to my sad, pathetic life. Flip burgers at some other greasy spoon. Stare at water stains on the ceiling. Pretend I didn't exist.
Mom would be safe. She wouldn't even know how close she'd come to dying. And that was all that mattered.
Dimitri made his way down Chartres Street, past wrought-iron balconies dripping with ferns and the soft glow of gas lanterns flickering against old brick. This part of the Quarter was quieter—residential, historic, the kind of neighborhood where money whispered instead of shouted.
The limo slowed and pulled to a stop in front of a townhome.
I leaned forward, taking it in.
Three stories of pale yellow stucco with forest-green shutters. A narrow balcony on the second floor, overflowing with potted jasmine and trailing ivy. The front door was painted a deep burgundy, flanked by antique sconces that cast warm pools of light onto the worn brick steps. It was elegant without being flashy. Classic. The kind of place that had been here for two hundred years and would be here for two hundred more.
So this was where Selena lived.
It suited her.
My chest tightened. She'd built a life here. A real one. While I'd been rotting in a flea-trap hotel, she'd been teaching at the Academy, living in this beautiful townhome, moving on.
Without me.
Good, I told myself.That's good. She deserves better than you.
I shoved that thought down and reached for the door handle.
Dimitri opened it before I could. He winked. "Go get her."
I glared at him but didn't bother with a response. He'd only enjoy it.
I stepped out of the limo and made my way up the sidewalk, my shoes clicking against the worn brick. The jasmine from her balcony drifted down, sweet and heady in the evening air. I stopped in front of the burgundy door, took a breath, and rapped my knuckles against it.
Footsteps inside. The click of heels on hardwood.
The door swung open.
My brain went blank.
Selena stood in the doorway, and every thought I'd ever had evaporated like mist in the sun. She wore a long black gown that clung to her curves like it had been painted on, the fabric shimmering faintly in the lamplight. Her dark hair was swept up into an elegant twist, exposing the slender column of her neck—the place where, if things had been different, my mark would be.
Diamond earrings caught the light as she tilted her head. Her lips were painted a deep red. Her eyes—those dark, devastating eyes—met mine, and I forgot how to breathe.
I tried to say something. Anything. You look beautiful. You look incredible. I'm sorry for everything I ever did to hurt you.
