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She’s never even left her goddamn city.
She comes from a small family too; a father, and an older brother. There’s no mother in the picture. She has no extended family either.
So where the fuck did that come from?
My hands are shaking, but I force them to stay still as I curl my fingers into fists to steady myself.
She fainted not too long after she uttered that word, and after checking her over, Mikhail and I thought it would be best to let her rest.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to know.
As I inhale deeply, I force fresh air into my lungs, forcing the anger back down, desperate not to lose control like this.
“Who the fuck have we taken, Mikhail?”
The words are sharp, low, and dangerous as they leave my lips.
There’s a fire starting deep in my gut, but there’s also something else.
A tightening in my chest that I can’t shake. A deep throb at the back of my head.
Chiara shouldn’t know. Chiara shouldn’t be part of this world.
Yet somehow, she is.
Mikhail takes some time to respond. I don’t blame him for it, not when my own mind is spinning too.
Chiara is not like the others. There’s something about her, something that makes my gut twist.
I take another breath in.
And for the first time, I wonder who she really is. I wonder which tales of the past I might have opened up by bringing her here. If she knows about both—about the Russians as well as the Italians—I can only wonder who she may be.
What woman would know about something like that?
Glancing to where Chiara lays unconscious, I feel something stir inside me, an unease that won’t go away. Chiara isnothinglike all those other women, but this is no longer about control, or even power either.
This is about something bigger than us. Something older, and something more dangerous.
My heart pounds harder in my chest as I pull my eyes away from her, choosing to look over at my brother once more.
Mikhail’s face remains stony, unreadable. He doesn’t say a word. The same confusion is clear in his gaze as it is in mine when our eyes lock together. Finally, my brother speaks.
“Do you think she might be a princess?”
There’s a pause.
I freeze, hating how that question makes my stomach tighten.
Together, we have spent days—weeks—watching her. We have followed her every move. We have seen the way she presents herself to the world.
And it’s only now that my brother has asked the question that things seem to make much more sense. The pieces shift, slowly clicking into place.
Rumours I have heard over the years, how the Russians were involved in an attack, leaving the Italians defenceless. How an internal affair within the higher ranks of the Italian mafia almost resulted in a full-blown war. There were whispers, some which have never made sense untilnow.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I groan.
Could she be?