Lucia sits silently in the far right of the room, surrounded by the petals and the other wives as she sheds a couple of crocodile tears, dabbing at her eyes with a blue silk handkerchief as she cries for the monster she called her husband. It’s really so fake that I could laugh, but at least I don’t have to pretend. No one really cares.
Fabiola saunters over to me, dressed elegantly in a black dress that reaches her knees, her long brown tresses placed in a slick, low ponytail. Without a word, she slips her hand into mine. I feel nothing as her warmth embraces my coldness; her touch is nothing but a contract, not comfort.
Another performance for this sick circus. She gently squeezes my hand, reminding me of my role in this game, reminding me of what needs to be done. I wait until the priest finishes with his sermon and the service ends to step forward, gently tapping the mic.
Everyone stops, heads turn to the front, and I nod.
“Thank you to everyone who joined us for the celebration of my father, Sergio Safra. I know that we are mourning, but my father would have wanted me to carry on his legacy.” My voice is steady, just what I had hoped for when I spent hours rehearsing the lines. I clear my throat, glancing over to the side, where Fabiola stands clutching her small bag. I motion her forward. “To marry Fabiola. To take his place in the firm.”
The words taste sour on my tongue, bile clawing its way up my sternum, its acid burning everything in its path. Fabiola plays the part beautifully, looking elegant as she slips her hand into mine and offers a small smile. Nods of approval follow, and I grin, pretending that I’m not already planning the grand finale.A shadow moves towards the back, a blur of black and milky skin.
A ghost seeing off the man who has haunted her.
My hand falls to my pocket, feeling the USB grow heavier inside of it. I lean into Fabiola’s ear. “I need to do something.” She dips her chin, her eyes looking past me and towards the group of women heading our way.
The switch is impossible to miss, the way her shoulders lift higher, along with her chin and even the air smells of confidence is impossible to ignore. I knew she would be perfect… I watch as she moves around me without a word, and I quickly head towards the door. Hoping that I can still catch my ghost. I spot the open door of the mausoleum, the perfect place to hide. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stride towards it, my heart finally finding a steady rhythm. Maybe it’s because all the pieces are perfectly staged, and now the only thing left is to step into the fire.
I stop right outside the door, the chill of the stone pressing against my back. Wind blows against the dead trees, carrying the smell of lilies and death. Fitting for the kind of place that harbors death—including the truth that’s about to be buried here.
I don’t step inside, there’s no need.
“I know who you are…” I whisper loud enough so only we can hear, my fingers toying with the USB inside my pocket. “I know you’re behind the gossip blog.” I let the words hang between us, allowing myself room to breathe before continuing. “I put it together, after I saw…” My jaw goes tight, reconsidering my words. “Eyes that know too much from experience.”
There’s no answer, only silence and the faint echo of my own breath. My hand closes around the small device, funny how much heavier it is—feeling like a loaded gun that carries every secret Villalargos should have swallowed.
“I’m your ally,” I add, my eyes on the small shadow that’s cast on the ground, the corner of my lip lifts at the realization my ghost is listening. “You can expose it,” I pause, letting the moment stretch. Or maybe it's a slight hesitation. “Or you can trust me. Let me burn it from the inside.”
This time, I don’t wait for an answer.
I offer my truce, the only bargaining chip I have. Setting the USB on the stone ledge beside the door.
“I’ll leave this here for you.” With that, I turn away as the wind shifts behind me, carrying the faintest rustle of movement from inside the mausoleum. And I smile at the ghost, acknowledging their ally. Or maybe not.
Either way, the fire has already started.
Chapter Twenty- Eight
Thiago
Everything is a blur; I’m not sure what to do with all the emotions kept locked inside me. I force out a smile, which feels more like glass, thin and brittle and ready to shatter if anyone looks too close. The music becomes background noise the deeper I walk into the club. Bass hums through the floorboards, laughter ricochets off the walls, and I stand in the middle of it all, pretending to be celebrating, like this life is some kind of achievement. After the service, all of the men headed back to Velarium.
Another performance, playing the perfect heir I was raised to be. Celebrating my engagement to Fabiola. My acceptance of my legacy. My promise to ‘honor my father’s footsteps.’ Another defining moment in a young man's life. All lies wrapped in a perfect bow. I drink to that.
Peter pours me another drink, unbuttoning his blazer. “To a new era,” he says, voice smooth as silk over a blade.
I nod and raise the glass. “To the future,” I answer, though the words taste more like poison. He leans back, studying me.Waiting to see the crack. I give him nothing but the buzz from the alcohol flooding my system. My jaw tightens. And for a moment, neither of us speaks.
Peter clears his throat and rolls his neck. His voice comes out mechanically. “He’s been asking questions.”
My brows furrow. “Who?”
A smirk spreads through his lips, his head playfully tilting to the side. He’s amused by the looks of it, and it freaks me the fuck out. The hair on my arms raises when he answers. “Sledge, that’s why I had him fighting Zayden. Turns out that Greyson boy is more troublesome than we originally thought.”
Greyson.
Of course it had to be him. And by the way the asshole’s grin widens, I know that whatever game he’s playing, Zayden is already in it. I don’t respond, only let the words hang between us, just like he intended them too. My gaze drops to the amber liquid in my glass and realize the celebration isn’t for me—it’s for the trap already closing.
Peter downs his drink, proceeding to let out a guttural growl, amping himself up for his grand reveal.
