Page 12

Cassian sits across from me, tapping the edge of the ledger with two fingers, his tone steady. “The debt on Pier Twelve is long overdue. If they stall again tonight, I’ll send a message.”

I nod, rubbing my thumb along the iron signet ring on my finger. My attention sharpens—until the office door slams open.

Emilia barrels inside, a wreck. The first thing I see is her dress—a plain, shapeless black thing that hangs on her like a punishment.

Barefoot. Her hair’s a tangled mess, flattened in some places, sticking out wildly in others.

The polished, perfectly composed Emilia is gone. This version is raw and furious.

I sit up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

Cassian stiffens beside me, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the grin from breaking out.

Emilia doesn’t bother with composure. “Ask your crazy wife!” she shrieks, voice cracking under the strain. Tears stream down her cheeks as she gestures wildly at herself. “She did this! She humiliated me in front of everyone! Sold my things—my clothes—without my permission!”

I blink, processing. “Wait…what?”

Before she can say more, Cassian’s phone buzzes. He answers, lifting one finger in my direction as I watch Emilia crumble into full sobs, her chest heaving.

Cassian listens for a few moments, voice low.

“Oh. I see. You’re welcome. I’ll let him know.

” He lowers the phone, finally allowing himself a twitch of amusement.

“That was Brother Stefano. The nuns raised five million at the fundraiser.” He pauses, glancing at Emilia with clear mischief.

“They say it’s thanks to Fioretta. And Emilia. ”

Emilia swings her head toward me, her voice rising again into full hysteria. “She sold my clothes!” Her hands fling up, as if physically throwing away invisible dresses. “She even tried to auction off my panties. There just wasn’t enough time left!”

That’s it. Cassian cracks. He bursts out laughing, the sound rich, uncontrolled. His shoulders shake as he leans back, barely able to catch his breath.

Emilia screams, “Fuck you!” and launches herself at him. Her fists pound against his chest, useless against his frame. He doesn’t even bother blocking her—he’s too busy laughing, each punch only fueling his amusement.

I push up from my chair, grabbing Emilia by the shoulders and pulling her back before she works herself into full collapse. “Enough. Calm down.”

She jerks against my hold, voice raw. “You’re blaming me! You’re saying it’s my fault!”

“Are you sure you didn’t provoke her?” I ask evenly, holding her at arm’s length.

Emilia glares up at me, mascara streaking under her eyes. “You think I deserved it?”

“Most likely,” Cassian adds between wheezes of laughter.

“Die,” she spits at him, snapping her head toward him before swinging back to me.

I exhale slowly, steadying my voice. “Look—I’ll make it up to you. Just stay away from her. I told you to do that already. She isn’t herself.”

Emilia’s breath hitches as she wipes her cheeks roughly. “I think she is exactly herself.”

I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”

“She’s faking,” Emilia hisses, eyes darting back and forth like she’s finally revealing a conspiracy no one’s listening to. “Her test results said she’s physically fine. No brain damage. No memory issues. She’s pretending.”

Cassian folds his arms, his grin barely contained. “She was eavesdropping.”

“Shut up!” Emilia barks at him before whipping back to face me, her chest still heaving.

“I think she remembers everything, Serevin. And she’s playing you. She’s waiting for the right time to destroy me. Destroy us. She already tried once. Don’t you see? She’s setting a trap.”

I run my hand over my jaw, sighing deeply. “That’s enough for tonight. You need rest.” My voice drops lower. “Tell me what she sold. I’ll replace it.”

Emilia lets out a bitter laugh through her tears. “You fool. You’re still in love with her.”

My gaze sharpens. “What are you talking about?”

She steps closer, voice breaking but sharp beneath the sobs. “You think she won’t come for you, too? When she remembers? She hates you. She hates me. And you’re standing here like some lovesick idiot while she plays her little game.”

I clamp my jaw shut, breathing through my nose. “Cassian—”

Cassian nods, already moving toward her. His grin betrays him.

“Stop smiling!” Emilia shrieks at him. She slams her heel down hard on his foot, shoves his chest as hard as she can manage—which barely moves him—and storms out, slamming the office door behind her.

Cassian watches her leave, his grin finally splitting into full laughter once the door closes. His shoulders shake as he exhales. “Boss…she’s going to kill me one day.”

I rub my temples, letting my head fall back slightly. “Get in line.”

The office door slams behind Emilia, leaving behind a suffocating quiet.

I exhale, long and heavy, and drop back into my chair. The leather groans under me. My hand drags down my face, fingers pressing into my temples, as if I can massage away the headache pounding at the back of my skull.

Across from me, Cassian watches—far too entertained. His arms fold across his chest, that insufferable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He lets the silence hang a few seconds longer before breaking it. “Auctioning off panties,” he says, voice light, almost amused. “Oh, Emilia’s right about one thing. Your wife is going to end you when she remembers everything.”

I lift my head and stare at him. My eyes narrow, jaw tight. “Don’t you have a debtor to handle?”

Cassian’s grin widens. He throws up a lazy salute. “On my way, Boss.”

He pivots smoothly, his shoes clicking as he strolls toward the door, still chuckling under his breath. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

I lean back fully, eyes on the ceiling, hands clasped behind my head. The tension doesn't leave my chest.

She’s going to end me, huh?

Maybe.

^^^^

It’s nighttime.

The door creaks open, and Fioretta steps inside, barefoot, her frame small against the grand room but commanding it all the same.

She wears an oversized, loose T-shirt that sways just past her thighs, the fabric soft and wrinkled, as if she pulled it on without much thought.

Her hair sits piled on top of her head in a messy bun, a few strands curling loose around her face.

She looks bored. But beneath it, sharp. Watching everything.

She drops into the chair across from me like she owns it.

“You asked me here.” Her voice is dry, not impatient exactly, but clipped. “If it’s because of your mistress, she started it.”

I let her words hang for a breath, my hands resting lightly on the desk.

“Emilia isn’t my mistress,” I answered calmly. “She’s your cousin. She’s a friend. She’s here because you wanted to keep her safe after she lost her father.”

Her brow arches. The corner of her mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Did I?” She hums, glancing off to the side, voice soft but laced with something bitter. “Wow. I was a dull one.”

I exhale through my nose. This is not why I called her in. My fingers tap once against the folder resting on my desk.

“I didn’t call you because of Emilia,” I say. “I need you to give your signature to something.”

She tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing, studying me. “What are these things you speak of?”

Our gazes hold, her tone mocking but curious. I watch the small shift in her posture, the way her legs cross lazily, her fingertips drumming against the armrest, as if daring me to explain.

I nod toward the couch near the window. “It’ll be more comfortable there.”

She rises from the chair with that lazy grace, her bare legs stretching as she strolls to the couch. The oversized t-shirt shifts against her frame with every step. She folds herself into the corner of the couch, tucking one leg under the other, arms resting across her lap. Eyes on me. Waiting.

I pick up the folder and join her, sitting across from her on the low table. I set the thick stack of documents between us, flipping it open.

“These aren’t just random papers,” I begin, voice even. “These are ownership deeds. Authorizations. Maritime control permits. They’re yours.”

She leans forward slightly, studying the first page. Her name sits printed in heavy ink. Fioretta Celeste D’Angelis.

“You own the routes along the southern ports. Three shipping docks. The paperwork transferred when your father passed.” I flip to the next page, tapping it with my finger. “You inherited them directly. His lands, his trade routes—everything attached to D’Angelis territory fell into your hands.”

Her brows furrow, but she nods as she absorbs it. “Ports, docks…” she repeats, almost testing the words on her tongue.

“The family has long controlled more than cargo.” My voice drops lower, steady. “Through these routes move more than imports and exports. We run weapons, pharmaceuticals, currency…drugs.”

Her lips press together, but she nods again, gaze sharp.

“Your father’s position in this syndicate was secured because he controlled reliable maritime lanes.

Those lanes feed into our larger network—my consortium—and keep our operations stable.

But these docks remain legally under your name.

My men facilitate the movement, but no large shipment leaves without your approval. ”

I turn another page, showing her a detailed map now—colored routes stretching across ocean channels, through city ports, branching like veins inland.

She studies it closely, her head tilting slightly. “These channels are already crowded,” she says suddenly, voice thoughtful. “Why don’t you approve these ones?” She taps at a cluster of routes marked inland, pushing further into the desert zone rather than the existing coastal paths.

I glance down, analyzing where she’s pointing. “You’re suggesting we move supply through inland caravans.”