Page 7

She’s a mess. Hair dripping onto her shoulders, sheet clinging to skin that’s probably still damp beneath it. But there’s something beneath the wreckage that stopping me from dealing with her in the way I normally would.

I let the quiet drag out just long enough to make her sweat.

Then, I keep my voice low before I say, “So tell me, why are you here? In this room?”

“I told you. I work here.”

A knock at the door makes her jump. Enzo Ravelli, my cousin, enters the room. His suit is pristine despite what I know he's been handling next door. That place was a fucking mess, but that's what you get when you think you can outsmart the family that runs this city.

I snap my fingers. "Enzo. Perfect timing. Water for our guest. Something sweet, too. She's starved."

Bianca looks at me like I shouldn't have a say in how she's feeling. Lucky for her, Enzo returns moments later with a bottle of water and chocolate bar.

I toss them onto the bed beside her.

"Eat. Drink. You'll need your strength for our conversation."

Her hands shake as she reaches for the water. "What conversation?"

Her lips wrap around the bottle cap as she twists it open, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of what she might look like if this cruel fucking world hadn’t just crumbled around her.

Messy, yes.

But I have no doubt she's fucking beautiful in the right light. The kind of beauty that haunts men after they’ve already ruined it.

"The conversation where you tell me why you're really here. In an empty room. On a floor that was supposed to be cleared." I tap my fingers against the leather armrest. "The one where you explain what you heard through those very thin walls while Mr. Malenko learned the price of betraying my family."

She nearly chokes on her water.

"Ah." I smile coldly. "So you did hear more than you're admitting."

The bottle crinkles in her grip. One small tell in a sea of them. She's an open book written in a language I've spent my life learning to read.

And every page screams trouble.

Still, Bianca doesn’t answer right away.

She just stares at the bottle in her hands, like the label holds some kind of answer. Her thumb runs over the condensation and her lashes are still spiked from dried tears, but she’s not crying anymore.

She’s just…empty.

“So, what’s his name?” I ask.

Her eyes snap to mine.Caught.

“What?”

“The man who broke you.”

Her jaw tightens. “You think I look broken?”

“No. Iknowbroken. I know what it smells like, sounds like, bleeds like.” I gesture toward her with a flick of my hand. “And my sweet doll, you’re wearing it like perfume.”

Her laugh comes out hollow as she shakes her head, the movement making a trace of hair fall down across her cheek. I have to fight back the urge to slide it back behind her ear again.

"My fiancé. Well…ex-fiancé now, I suppose. Marcus Forbes."

The word catches in her throat like broken glass, and I take note of that name for another day. I lean forward, elbows on my knees. Something dark and oh-so familiar stirs in my chest – the taste of betrayal.