Page 69 of Cruel Romeo

How, when my father and brother were the one who attacked his?

No. I can’t tell him. I won’t. I’ll keep my mouth shut, keep my head down, and finish what I started.

And if shit hits the fan?

I’ll run as fast as my feet can take me.

27

SIMA

When we pull up in front of the mansion, Kira is already halfway out the door. She stops dead on the porch the moment she sees us, her eyes flicking from Petyr’s face to the shopping bags cutting into the crook of my arm. Her gaze lingers there, taking a slow inventory, and her pretty lips flatten into a thin, bloodless line.

“Nice haul,” she remarks finally, with a sugary smile that doesn’t even try to reach her eyes. “Guess it pays to marry up.”

I blink once. Twice.

Did this bitch just call me a gold-digger to my face?

Before I can come up with a suitably cutting retort, Petyr steps forward. “Kira.” His voice is low, clipped. The warning is unmistakable. “Enough.”

Bitch on the Go at least has the decency to flinch.

“She is family now,” Petyr continues. “I expect you to treat her as such.”

Kira’s eyes widen a fraction—surprise, maybe, or the recognition that she’s pushed too far—before she ducks her head. “Of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She breezes past me, but not before I catch the flicker of resentment in her expression. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, but barely. That was about as sincere as a fake apology can get.

Petyr doesn’t say anything else. Just presses a hand to the small of my back and guides me through the big oak doors.

I glance over my shoulder once, just in time to see Kira’s silhouette slip into her cherry-red Bentley, the engine purring as she disappears down the driveway.

“She really doesn’t like me,” I mutter as we cross the threshold.

“Don’t take it personally,” Petyr replies, though he doesn’t sound happy with her, either. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

I hum noncommittally, pretend to believe it. But I know the look she gave me. I’ve seen it before: in prep schools, at children’s fundraisers, around dinner tables where my father’s mistresses smiled too wide and made their barbs sound like compliments. She wasn’t firing at random—it was personal. Kira might be family, but she still sees me as an outsider.

She’s not wrong, though. I clutch my purse, remind myself of all the lies I’m carrying with me everywhere I go. I’m not here to stay. Not as Petyr’s wife, not as Sammi Banks. Certainly not as Kira’s sister-in-law.

Is it really such a loss if she starts hating me now instead of later?

Still, I don’t like having to watch my back from one extra enemy. It might be as Petyr says: Kira’s snappy, but inoffensive.

But if it does turn out she’s got claws, she’ll be disappointed to see she’s not the only one.

I let Petyr take the bags upstairs and follow him without another word. If Kira wants to play games, she’ll find out pretty quickly I didn’t survive my family by being soft. Let her underestimate me.

Everyone else always has.

After I finish putting my new things away, I head back down and find Petyr in the kitchen. Anya has left dinner for us: roasted chicken, sautéed vegetables, and some kind of lemony orzo that smells so good it actually makes my stomach growl.

We settle into the informal nook off the kitchen, plates between us. Petyr grabs the remote—so theydohave those here—and starts zapping until he finds something to land on. I’m expecting sportsball or the news, but oddly, it’s…

“Pompeii?” I ask as I chew on the most heavenly piece of asparagus I’ve ever had. Say what you will about Anya’s temper, but she knows her way around the stove. “That’s… cheery. I didn’t know you were into documentaries about dead people.”

“I’m not.” He keeps eating while glancing at the screen distractedly. “But history is fascinating. Much more clear-cut than the present.”