What Iusedto make in a year.
Suddenly overwhelmed, I kick off my shoes, fall onto the bed, and allow myself a few moments to sob into the pillow.
CHAPTER 7
THEA
It’s been three days since the auction.
Three days of dusting bookshelves and polishing silver, pretending I’m not a prisoner in some billionaire mobster’s mansion. Three days of trying to memorize staff and guard routines, all while watching Gabriel from a distance.
And my goddamn traitorous mind won’t stop playing that first night over and over in my head. All I need to do is close my eyes, and I can feel his fingers inside of me, his thumb pressing against my clit in that perfect way that made me see stars.
By afternoon, I’m in the main living room, a grand space with a gorgeous marble fireplace and a massive, sprawling sectional that looks like it’s never been sat upon. Oscar assigned me this wing of the first floor with orders to dust, vacuum, and make sure everything is beautiful for guests, though I haven’t seen a single guest since I arrived.
There’s a collection of artifacts on the mantel. I’m far from an expert, but I recognize a Roman coin, a piece of pottery with faded Greek lettering, and a scarab carved from jade. Each one islabeled with a date and location in that same neat handwriting I saw in the copy ofThe Prince.
Pompeii, 2019. Athens, 2021. Cairo, 2018.
I lean closer, studying the scarab. It’s beautiful, intricate, and impossibly detailed. But it’s more suitable for a museum, not a living room.
It appears Gabriel collects archaeological finds.
I try to picture him dressed in a sleek suit, standing in a dusty excavation site, those dark eyes fixed on a thousand-year-old relic as he studies it carefully.
Gabriel’s a man who reads Machiavelli and kills people and carefully preserves fragments of lost civilizations.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that mishmash of information?
I tear my eyes away from the artifacts and move to the nearby bookshelf, running my duster along the spines. More philosophy, art history, and an entire section on Renaissance architecture. Tucked between two enormous coffee table books is a slim paperback.
I can’t help but pull it out.
The Last Days of Pompeiiby Edward Bulwer-Lytton.
The pages are dog-eared, the cover worn soft. Someone’s read this. A lot.
I flip it open and find more margin notes, whole passages underlined, asterisks and question marks scattered throughout. One section is marked so heavily that the page is nearly unreadable.
We live in an age of ruins, where the past speaks louder than the present.
Beneath it, in Gabriel’s now-familiar neat handwriting:Only if you’re listening.
My eyes linger on those words.
“Well, this is certainly cozy.”
The voice behind me nearly makes me drop the book. Instead, I quickly slide it back into its place and turn around.
A woman stands in the doorway. She’s tall and polished, with sharp features. Her blonde hair falls onto her shoulders in waves, her eyes blue and piercing. She’s pretty. I can’t quite tell her age, but she looks a little younger than Gabriel. Maybe early forties. She’s wearing a cream blouse and tailored black slacks. Everything about her is professional, like she just walked out of a law firm ad.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, stepping away from the bookshelf. “I was just dusting.”
“I can see that. Or, more accurately, I can see that youweren’tdusting.” Her gaze flicks over me—the uniform, the duster in my hand—her mouth curving into something that’s not quite a smile. “You must be the new girl.”
“Thea,” I say.
“Amanda Reed.” She doesn’t approach, doesn’t offer her hand. “I’m Mr. Moretti’s attorney.”
