Page 8 of No Longer Mine (Rags & Riches #2)

Chapter Six

Dimitri

Another day, another campaign adventure.

I leaned back in the car, staring blankly out the window as the city lights streaked past. All I wanted was to be myself for one damn day.

To run through the streets drunk if I felt like it.

To walk into a strip club without a second thought.

Hell, even sitting in a quiet theater watching a movie sounded like heaven compared to this circus.

But I couldn’t.

Not with my face plastered all over the news and my name whispered at every dinner table that mattered.

Revenge had become my prison, shackling me to a life of carefully curated appearances and calculated moves. And the worst part? I’d willingly built the cage.

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, letting out a slow, measured breath.

I told myself that revenge would heal me. That I couldn’t move on from Cassie’s death until my father was brought to his knees. But deep down, I knew better. No matter how far I went, no matter how many victories I claimed, she wasn’t coming back.

The truth sat heavy in the back of my mind, whispering its poison. Revenge wouldn’t heal me. It would just leave me hollow.

But I couldn’t stop. Not now.

I dropped my hands and stared at my lap, the leather seats creaking softly as the car turned a corner. Another fundraiser done, another night of handshakes and fake smiles. I hated pretending. I hated rubbing elbows with the same politicians I despised.

And yet, the irony wasn’t lost on me.

They thought they were smarter than me, that they could mold me into another cog in their corrupt machine. They assumed I’d take their money, accept their gifts, and trade my integrity for their approval. They thought a Cristof would want nothing more than the power they were willing to wield.

Little did they know that they were all about to eat out of the palm of my hand.

Once I was elected, they’d swarm me like flies, bringing bribes wrapped in shiny packaging and calling them “support.” They’d want favors, votes, and policies that lined their pockets.

What they didn’t realize was that Benson had already started building the groundwork for their downfall.

Blackmail folders.

I smiled faintly, the darkness of the thought oddly comforting. Benson was meticulous—every folder filled with secrets they thought were buried. Affairs, offshore accounts, illegal dealings, and skeletons hidden so deep they’d forgotten they were there.

I never showed my full hand.

If someone didn’t like the subtlety of a blackmail folder and they wanted to play hardball?

Well, that’s what torture was for.

My grin widened as I imagined the possibilities. Maybe I was more like my father than I wanted to admit. The difference was that I wasn’t building an empire to hoard power. I was building a weapon to destroy his.

The car slowed as we approached my brownstone, the faint hum of the engine cutting through the silence.

Revenge wouldn’t heal me.

But it didn’t matter. Healing wasn’t the goal, I decided quickly.

Destruction was.

As I stepped out of the car, my eyes instinctively flicked upward. A shadow moved across the top window of one of the guest bedrooms, barely visible but unmistakable.

I smiled, a slow curve of my lips. So, my little visitor had returned.

I rolled my head on my shoulders, the tension from the fundraiser melting away. Maybe this campaign nonsense wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps it would even have its perks.

I walked up the steps, my keys already in hand, my steps measured and calm. This wasn’t a moment for panic or haste. No, this was an opportunity—one I didn’t plan to squander.

The door clicked shut behind me as quietly as I could get it. The house was silent, but the energy inside was alive and electric.

They’d been bold to come back. Either they thought I hadn’t noticed the last time, or they wanted me to.

Carefully, I set my keys on the entryway table and loosened my tie as I made my way to the stairs. My footsteps were soft and careful as I climbed upward.

This wasn’t about revenge or politics, not right now.

This was about curiosity.

And, maybe, about having a little fun.

No one needed to know.

I didn't know where they were, but something told me I’d find them in my bedroom this time. Whoever it was, they’d slipped past Benson’s upgraded security system without tripping a single alarm—no small feat.

My curiosity only grew sharper, edged with a tinge of anticipation. Who was this person who thought they could break into a Cristof’s home?

It was bold, maybe even reckless. They must’ve known whose house they were playing with. People knew the Cristof name and everything that came with it—power, danger, and the kind of upbringing that left its mark in all the wrong places.

A smirk tugged at my lips. Maybe they thought they were invincible, or perhaps they were just looking for a challenge. Either way, they’d gotten my attention.

I paused outside my bedroom door, the faintest sound catching my ear—a rustle, like someone shifting their weight.

There they were.

My heart pounded, but not with fear. No, this wasn’t fear. This was excitement.

I gripped the doorknob, turning it slowly, careful not to make a sound. Whoever was inside had taken great care to slip past my defenses.

The door swung open, and I stepped inside, taking in the dimly lit room. My eyes scanned the space, but nothing seemed out of place at first. The air was still, almost too quiet.

And then, a flicker of movement in the corner—just a shadow at the edge of my vision.

I smiled to myself, closing the door behind me with a soft click as I pulled a knife free from my pocket. The blade snapped out louder than the door closing.

The room stilled again, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Whoever was in my room hadn’t expected me to come home early.

I’d planned to stay at the fundraiser all night, schmoozing and rubbing elbows until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

But boredom and frustration had gotten the better of me.

Leaving early had seemed like a victory at the time.

Now, it felt like fate.

I rolled my shoulders, letting the knife catch the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. My grip was firm—steady—as I moved deeper into the room.

“You picked the wrong night,” I said, my voice low, steady, and amused. “Or maybe the right one, depending on how this plays out.”

No response.

The shadow in the corner shifted slightly, a faint shuffle of fabric brushing against the wall. They were still there, watching and waiting.

“Careful,” I murmured, tilting my head as I stepped closer. “I’m not in the mood to play nice.”

The words hung in the air, thick with warning.

And then, they moved.

Not toward me, not away, but stepping just far enough out of the shadows to let me see them—a figure dressed in black, their face partially obscured by a ski mask. But what struck me wasn’t their stance or their clothes—it was their calm.

They weren’t afraid.

I lunged, fast and precise, my knife slicing through the air, aiming for their center. But they were quicker than I anticipated, twisting out of reach at the last second. My blade met nothing but empty space.

Fine. I could play, too.

I pivoted sharply, anticipating their next move, and struck again. They dodged, but I was faster this time. My free hand shot out, grabbing the edge of their jacket and yanking them back toward me. The momentum sent us both crashing into the nearest wall, my knife pressing against their ribs.

I expected them to fight. To panic.

They didn’t.

Up close, I could hear their breathing—steady and controlled. The kind of composure that came with experience. My grip tightened as I leaned in, my voice low—dangerous. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Still, no response.

Their chest rose and fell against mine, their muscles tense beneath the fabric of their clothes. No struggling, no fear—just the quiet hum of something I couldn’t quite place.

Then, they moved.

Fast.

A sharp twist, a shift of weight, and suddenly, I was the one off balance. They broke free, slipping just beyond my reach, and I barely caught the flash of their eyes through the ski mask before they drove their knee up—hard—aiming for my ribs.

I blocked it at the last second, absorbing most of the hit, but it still sent a sharp jolt through my side. The sting only made my blood pump harder.

The intruder moved quickly, making a break for the open window as I reeled from the blow. But I wasn’t about to let them disappear into the night, not without knowing who they were.

My hand shot out, fingers catching on the fabric of their ski mask. They twisted, trying to jerk away, but I held firm and yanked hard.

The mask slipped free.

A cascade of crimson hair spilled into my hands, wild and unbound, catching the dim light like a burning ember.

I barely registered the sharp inhale, the way she turned just enough for me to catch the shape of her face, the fierce, narrowed eyes that burned with something unreadable.

A woman.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t curse or lash out. Instead, she simply shook her head before spinning on her heel and launching toward the open window.

I took a step forward, instinct telling me to grab her, to stop her—but I hesitated. This time, I was the one taken off guard. The last thing I was expecting was a woman and a woman who could best me.

She was already moving— gone—her body twisting with effortless grace as she disappeared into the night.

She left me standing in the middle of my room with my pulse still hammering and the ski mask still clenched tightly in my fist.

Who the hell was she?

And why did she look so damn familiar?