The metal door buzzes open. Another door. Another buzz. The sounds echo off concrete walls, layering over the clang of metal gates and the shouts of the incarcerated.
The visitation room has plastic tables bolted to the floor. Men in orange jumpsuits sit across from wives, girlfriends, mothers,and children. Some are agitated, hands gesturing wildly. Some sit slumped and morose, staring at nothing. A few are laughing, but there’s a manic edge to it, like they’ve forgotten what real laughter sounds like.
Rafiel Lucania sits at a table in the middle of the room, his hard eyes tracking me. He’s in his early twenties and prison-fit in a way that comes from having nothing to do but lift weights and fight. His head is shaved at the sides, blond hair swept back on top. Tattoos crawl up his neck and disappear beneath the orange jumpsuit. There’s a wolf among them. The Lucania family symbol. Loyalty inked into flesh.
His face is hard and unfriendly, and his body is coiled tight.
In the far corner sits a man radiating cold stillness. Fifties, broad-shouldered, some of his short beard gone to iron-gray. The tattoos heavily marking his muscular arms and throat are faded, the ink blurring at the edges. He has a visitor across from him, but he’s not looking at the visitor. He’s staring at me with hard blue eyes.
The resemblance to Rafiel hits me a second later. This must be Don Gabriel Lucania. Same build. Similar tattoos. Same eyes. But this man has decades on his son, many of them spent inside.
Two Lucanias staring at me like I owe them something. Typical.
Rafiel doesn’t move as I reach his table, and he doesn’t stand or offer his hand.
He just stares.
And stares.
The silence stretches. His dark blue eyes bore into me with pure, concentrated hatred. He’s examining every detail of my appearance. My tailored suit. My expensive shoes. My unscarred hands. Everything about me screams wealth, privilege, and freedom.
Everything he doesn’t have and never will.
I settle into the plastic chair across from him, refusing to be the first to look away.
Still, he says nothing. Just glowers.Hatingme.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “Have you set a date?”
“For what?”
“For when you’ll become the happiest man on earth.” The words come out clipped, like he’s forcing them through clenched teeth.
I study him. His knuckles are white, his hands clenched on the tabletop. I wonder why he’s asked me here. This doesn’t seem to be about the Sokolis, like Silas Cross said it would be.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say carefully.
“Don’t you?” The words come out like nails punched into wood. “Ariana Barone. When’s the wedding, Montoni?”
“I don’t…” I begin, my brow pinching in confusion. Is that jealousy pouring off Rafiel’s tense frame?
No, it can’t be.
This tattooed, violent, incarcerated man surely can’t be in love with Malus’s own ice princess.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” I say slowly. “I’m not engaged to anyone.”
“That’s what you’re calling it.” His voice is flat and cold. “A misunderstanding? Ariana Barone wore your ring for weeks before you humiliated her in public. The whole fucking city knows what you did to her.”
So that’s what this is about.
News travels fast in Malus, even through prison walls. Someone’s told Rafiel about what happened at the spa. Me running past my supposed fiancée like she didn’t exist to finger fuck another woman in the break room. Every client and staff member in that spa had probably spread the news to their friends, sisters, and husbands before Mina even climaxed on my tongue.
“It wasn’t intentional,” I say.
“Wasn’t it?” Rafiel leans forward slightly, and I see the effort it takes him to keep his hands flat on the table instead of around my throat. “You gave her a ring. Let her think you wanted to marry her. Then you had your whore assault her. She tried to break Ariana’s neck just for talking about you.”
The word “whore” makes my blood spike hot, but I keep my expression neutral.
