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“I can’t stop the rumors.” He gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s go inside. We don’t have to stay long.”

His non-answer doesn’t make me feel better. Does he think I killed Adrian? Of course he’s on my side—he raised me. But does he actually believe me when I say Lady Harrow pulled the trigger? The uncertainty gnaws at my insides as I give him a tiny nod and get out of the car.

There’s a ringing in my ears that grows with every footstep closer to the vineyard’s entrance. The cobblestone walkway is next to the Grimward’s prized cabernet grapes—Adrian’s favorite wine, a cruel connection.

The same black-clad vultures from the funeral meander around the stone terrace, their laughter too shrill as they clutch stemmed glasses like weapons.

Inside the converted barrel room, there’s a crystal chandelier suspended from wooden beams and fresh flowers cascading from copper containers—maybe used for fermentation?

The air is thick with the scent of oak and sweet grapes, mixing with expensive perfumes.

As if wealth and aged wine could somehow mask the stench of death and greed in this room.

Valentine gets a phone call and then tells me he needs to handle security concerns at the vineyard’s perimeter.

He disappears and I’m left to drift along the edges of the crowd, past emptied wine barrels repurposed as standing tables.

Family leaders and powerful allies clink glasses and speak in hushed tones about the new redistribution of power.

Fuck them all.

I find a dim alcove behind a massive oak barrel with the Grimward family crest and press my back against the cool wood, trying to make myself invisible. I don’t have the energy for confrontations or games today—not when every full wine glass reminds me of Adrian’s blood seeping through my fingers.

“Ciao, signorina.”

I turn with a gasp, not expecting anyone to find me here.

A man stands nearby, waves of dark golden hair combed back from his tanned face, a light contrast against his black suit.

Something about him tugs at my memory—the lightest shade of green eyes, an air of maturity that seems to weigh on his shoulders…

I’ve met him before. On the elevator. The night I killed Victoria. He was there with a little boy.

He notices my baffled expression and says in a warm voice, “Lorenzo Mancini.” He extends his hand. The name clicks—I went to the opening of his strip club last month. I just never connected that the club owner was the same man from the elevator.

I shake his hand. “Oh, uh, hi. I’m Aurelia. How’s the little boy who was with you?”

Lorenzo’s face softens, his words rolling out with Italian inflection. “Roby is well. Very excited to start elementary school.” A slight smile tugs at his lips. “He’ll be homeschooled but he’s such a curious boy. Always eager to learn.”

I nod. “He seems sweet.” I lean against the barrel behind me again, grateful for any distraction from the weight of this day.

“The world is cruel.” He gestures vaguely toward the gathering, where Lady Harrow now holds court among her admirers. “I prefer to teach him kindness before he learns our darkness.”

The way he says “our” makes me curious.

I almost want to ask why he recently joined the Inferno Consortium—what depravity might he be hiding? But I don’t. I already know he must have some evil inside him if he’s part of the inner circle.

Poor Roby, being brought into this life .

Clearing my throat, I keep the conversation light. “Are you new to Seattle?”

Lorenzo takes a sip of his wine, studying the deep crimson liquid.

“My family is originally from Italy. They have hotel chains across Europe. I’ve been expanding beyond our strip clubs and restaurants—France, Spain, Norway.

And now here. So yes, I’m new.” His eyes meet mine, something unreadable swimming in their depths.

“Coming here, being allowed to open business in Harrow territory, is a mutually beneficial arrangement, as they say.”

I nod, my gaze slipping to others. It’s strange, but Lorenzo seems… genuine. I’m not used to it but any optimism he might still have—being new to this nightmare—will only get devoured soon enough.

Soon, he’ll be like all of them.

I’m silent for several moments, just thinking about how this life slowly twists and corrupts even those with good intentions. Lorenzo leans closer, offering me a canapé from a passing server. The scent of his cologne is subtle—bergamot and sandalwood.

I take the canapé but can’t eat it. “Oh, thanks.”

“How are you?”

His question catches me off guard, so my eyes dart to his.

The question should feel invasive, but somehow it doesn’t.

Perhaps it’s the gentle way he asks, without the predatory interest or ulterior motives I’m used to at these gatherings.

Maybe it’s him, maybe I’m just numb to everything, but I answer honestly. “I’m miserable.”

Lorenzo’s expression falls, his lips turning down as his brows become heavy weights crushing his eyes. “ Cucciola,” he says gently. He opens his mouth to say something more but he doesn’t get the chance.

A woman’s scream shatters the air.

Lorenzo moves with startling speed, positioning himself in front of me as chaos erupts. His broad shoulders block my view, a protective gesture that seems oddly instinctive for someone I barely know.

“Stay here,” he orders, already moving toward the commotion.

Of course, I don’t listen.

I trash the canapé and inch closer to where people are gathering. I catch fragments of panicked whispers. A man is sprawled on the floor, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. No blood—just an empty wine glass rolled away from his lifeless fingers. The sharp scent of almonds hangs in the air.

Cyanide. How… interesting. I considered using that for my first kill, but decided on Wolfsbane since it doesn’t have much odor.

I push forward until I can see the dead man’s face. His classic Italian features are turning blue and swelling. Also… there’s a black raven’s feather sticking from his breast pocket. It’s strange—why does he have that?

I don’t know who he is until I hear someone whisper, “Theodore Martinelli.” The name ripples through the crowd like the poison that just flowed through his veins.

My stomach lurches and I step back. Martinelli is, or was , Victoria’s cousin. He was a disgusting little man who arranged those “special meetings” between my mother and Victoria’s. The bastard watched, facilitated, and probably got off on the whole sick thing .

He was next on my list. I had plans for him, once the fog of grief lifted enough for me to think straight. But dammit, someone beat me to it.

Who?

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stiffen as I feel eyes on me. I glance around, searching the sea of shocked faces, until I find Julian’s dark stare.

The accusation in his gaze makes my blood pump harder.

I see my future written in the blackness of his pupils—he thinks I did this.

But why? I never showed him my hit list, so why am I suddenly a suspect?

And it’s even more devastating that he thinks I would murder someone on such an important and difficult day for him.

He sees me only as a monster, and yet I’ve done nothing to actually earn that label.

The walls seem to close in as I realize: nothing I say will convince Julian of my innocence.