Page 29

Frequently sneaking off on my bodyguards means I’m on a first-name basis with almost every Uber driver within a five-mile radius, but I’m not about to let Billy know where I live. I wait for him to drive out of sight before turning toward the estate.

It’s not a long walk, but every step feels heavier than the last, every muscle screaming in protest—either from fighting Rocky or from the ebb of adrenaline . . .

In my brain is a catalog of excuses, each one perfected for why I stayed out all night. Which one I use depends on what story Diego, my bodyguard slash driver, has told Papa.

Most evenings, Diego drops me off at college for a sorely needed tutorial—believable considering the abysmal state of my grades—and then I disappear into an Uber to return at a carefully arranged time. No harm, no foul. But last night was the first time I didn’t return.

The Capitoline wolf atop the Romano estate glares down at me from its perch on the wrought iron gates, judging as I approach. I don’t blame it. I missed my ride last night and arrived on foot, no doubt looking like I’ve been thoroughly . . . handled.

I’m barely three steps from the gates when Pablo, the guard, materializes from the shadows like a ghost.

“Signorina?”he calls, brow arched in surprise and worry.

I hover on the verge of blurting it all out:I was drugged, Pablo. Some guy saved me, but I think the world’s about to implode around me.

I can almost see the estate erupting into chaos—gates slamming shut, men scrambling with guns, my father roaring for blood, tearing apart the city to find whoever dared touch his daughter.

But if Rocky’s right and the people I trust are actually plotting against me, I’d just be handing myself to the wolves on a silver platter.

“Buongiorno, Pablo. I’m alright,“ I reply with a wave, forcing lightness into my voice as I step past him.

He says nothing, but I don’t miss the way his hand hovers near his radio. Great. They’ll know I’m back before I even reach the front door.

The estate looms ahead, cold stone and towering columns, a palace-turned-prison. The winding driveway stretches endlessly, each step in my heels bringing me closer to the inevitable.

Aspredicted, the heavy front doors swing open as I reach the top of the steps. There they are—of course. The welcoming committee.

Papa stands just inside the foyer in his thick terry robe, a cigar between his fingers, radiating controlled fury. Clemenza is beside him, fully dressed in his usual suit, arms crossed, expression unreadable. In the background, Diego hovers nervously, his gaze flicking between them and me.

Papa speaks first. “Where the hell have you been, Luna? I’ve combed the entire city for you!”

I study his face, searching for genuine concern beneath the anger. Would he look different if he knew what Clemenza was planning? Or would he dismiss my fears like he dismisses everything else?

“I wasn’t in the city, Papa. I was in Evanston,” the lie comes easily.

“What?” Papa’s voice rises, disbelief and fury blending into a familiar symphony. He whirls on my bodyguard. “Diego! How could you—”

“Diego had no idea, Papa,” I cut in. “He dropped me off at school and I told him to wait. I took the other exit and sneaked away.”

Diego, playing his part perfectly, bows his head in frustration. But Clemenza is standing too still. There’s a small lift at the corner of his mouth, enough to set my nerves on fire. Is that amusement at my lie or satisfaction that his plan is working?

Diego steps forward, head still bowed. “SignorRomano, I can’t tell you how sorry I am—”

Papa slices the air with his hand, cutting Diego off. His eyes swing back to me, expression shifting to one of earnest frustration. “I thought you’d left the childish games behind,stellina.Thisis no Paris. Chicago is getting too dangerous for us Romanos.”

For once, Papa, I agree with you, though not for the reasons you think.

“Why did you go to Evanston?” His voice hardens again, and his cigar smoke curls around us, acrid and suffocating, like the lies I’m about to tell.

“My friend’s getting married. Last night was her hen party. I couldn’t exactly have Diego follow me there. It would be . . . too embarrassing.” I throw a quick apologetic glance at Diego, building the fiction.

Papa’s face flushes darker, his voice booming. “I’d rather have you embarrassed andalive!”

I fake a flinch, then soften my voice in contrition. “Alright, fine. I get it, Papa. It won’t happen again.” I glance meaningfully at Clemenza and Diego, trying to get Papa alone. “Look, are we about done here? I need to talk to you.”

Papa takes a long drag of his cigar and exhales roughly. My heart pounds against my ribs as I wait.

Please, just this once, choose me over—