She was as striking as ever. Gone were the horrible bruises I’d given her, the ones that had haunted my nightmares for months. Her dark hair was pulled into an elegant French braid, diamonds woven through the strands. She wore a long silver sequined gown that caught the light with every breath. But it was her eyes that nearly destroyed me—still warm, still kind, still looking at me like I was her son and not the creature who’d broken her bones.
I didn’t deserve that kindness.
I didn’t deserve her.
“I need a drink.”
Coward. Such a coward thing to say. But I was at a loss for anything else. What was I supposed to tell her? Sorry I beat you half to death? Sorry I disappeared for two years? Sorry I’m only here because a mafia king is blackmailing me with your life?
No. Sorry wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
Mom’s lips pressed together—a small, tight movement that broke my heart more than any tears could have. But she nodded. “Of course. We can talk later.”
Later. Right. As if there would be a later.
I took Selena’s arm—maybe a little too roughly—and steered us toward the bar. She glanced up at me, questions in her eyes, but she didn’t ask them. Smart woman.
I just needed to get through this. Steal the key from Selena’s purse, sneak away from the party when no one was looking, find Julienne’s office, steal the shard, and get back to my pathetic life.
Simple.
So why did I feel like everything was about to fall apart?
Ethan, Costin’s manservant, was working behind the bar tonight. He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d been doing this for centuries—which, knowing Costin, he probably had. His bluish-grey eyes flicked over me as we approached, taking in the rumpled lapels, the tension in my shoulders.
“Prince Rocco.” His voice was pleasant, perfectly neutral. “What would you like tonight? Possibly some Chosen Blood?”
No judgment. No surprise at seeing the disgraced prince at the party. That was Ethan—he rarely let his emotions show. If he had opinions about me being here, they stayed locked behind that polite mask.
Chosen Blood was the Dom Pérignon of the vampire world—rare, exquisite, reserved for special occasions. But I needed something stronger. Something to burn away the image of my mother’s face, the hurt in her eyes when I’d walked away.
“Shot of whiskey, Ethan.” I glanced at Selena beside me. “Chosen Blood for the lady.”
Ethan nodded and turned to prepare our drinks. I drummed my fingers on the bar, scanning the room, calculating how long I’d have to stay before I could slip away unnoticed.
Not long enough, apparently.
Keir Rankin was heading straight for us.
The Unseelie mafia king moved through the crowd like he owned the place—which, in a way, he did. His long white hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and his sharp blue eyes missed nothing. They never did. The fae were dangerous enough, but Keir was something else entirely. Centuries of scheming and backstabbing had honed him into something beautiful and lethal—like a poisoned chalice you couldn’t refuse.
He had a gift for finding things out. For putting pieces together when no one else could.
I hoped to God he wouldn’t discover what I was really doing here tonight.
If he blackmailed Angelo, my mom was already dead.
His faithful enforcer, Lorcan, followed a step behind. Short spiked hair, leather jacket over his formal shirt—the guy always reminded me of a punk rocker from decades long gone. He looked bored, but I knew better. Lorcan was never bored. He was waiting.
“Rocco.” Keir stopped in front of us and raised his martini glass in a mocking toast. “I see you earned an invitation.”
“Keir.” I kept my voice tight, controlled. The last thing I needed was the Unseelie mafia king sniffing around. He was much too smart—the kind of smart that saw through lies andsmelled weakness like blood in the water. “Actually, I’m here representing Angelo.”
Something flickered in those icy blue eyes. Interest. Amusement. Suspicion.
Behind him, Lorcan snorted.
Ethan slid my whiskey across the bar. I grabbed it and slammed it back, letting the burn chase away the urge to say something I’d regret.
