Page 56 of Thorns of Deceit

Cutting my train of thought, I shifted my mind to tomorrow’s checklist instead: a meeting to discuss a shipment of a product, resolving the issues we’d been having with one of our Greek contacts, and a delivery to Albania. I was halfway through my mental audit when another round of applause burst through the air.

I stifled a yawn, checking the time on my Patek Philippe watch.

Fuck me, I thought, realizing that only five minutes had passed. This night was going to drag, but I knew appearances mattered and some business deals were better off made at shows like this than in offices.

My gaze darted around the room and I spotted Amon Leone just a few feet down, staring at the stage like his life depended on it.

I pushed off the wall and approached. “Amon.”

He turned with a stiff smile. “Callahan.”

“I’m surprised to see you here,” I remarked, keeping a keen gaze on my surroundings. You could never be too careful, even among allies; they could just as easily become enemies in the next breath.

“Likewise.”

I shrugged.

“Luca called this a shitshow,” I said, glancing at the stage, just as a raven-haired woman stepped into the light of the stage, “so of course he thought I’d want to see it.”

She turned her head, just slightly, and my heart kicked into overdrive.

No, it couldn’t be. My eyes and mind were playing tricks on me again.

The light was messing with me. That hair color wasn’tthatrare.

The same shape of the jawline, the subtle fullness of her mouth, and that fiery, purposeful stride. A low hum filled my ears, drowning out everything else. My stomach twisted itself into a knot so tight it hurt.

No, it wasn’t possible. My wife was dead. I’d seen the wreckage, stood over the ashes, buried what was left.

My mouth went dry while I gave myself a pep talk.

And yet…

My hands trembled, useless at my sides. I told myself to look away, to stop imagining her. People resembled each other all the time.

And then she turned around, facing me, and my heart stopped.

It washer.

She wasn’t a dream. Not a ghost. Not some cruel hallucination dredged up by grief.

It was my wife. Alive. Breathing. Standing there—proud and happy—as if the grave had never claimed her.

My knees almost gave out under the sheer impossibility of it, my heart hammering so violently I thought it might tear through my chest. Every memory, every night spent mourning, every promise I’d whispered to the dark was shattered in an instant.

How was it possible? How could she be here, alive, when I had watched her casket lower into the cold ground?

TWENTY-ONE

RAVEN

Reina’s fashion show was in motion. Music pulsed through the room, bass humming low in my chest while spotlights carved sharp arcs of brilliance through the smoky haze.

I stepped onto the runway, the polished wood clicking under my heels. All around me, eyes were glued to my every move. Or so I assumed.

And then I felt it.

A tingle at the back of my neck. It was that subtle, spine-stretching awareness that someone was watching. It was the kind of presence that made the hairs on your arms stand on end, though the source was hidden, obscured by the glare of stage lights.