Page 23

Veronica

M r. Putin, the butler, served dinner at 7:30 p.m. Veronica had just finished showering and was ransacking her travel bag for her arm warmers, almost on the verge of a panic attack when his knock came on the door.

As his knocks echoed, Veronica’s fingers had trembled, digging through her things, pulse hammering in her ears. She was certain she packed them.

Her breath hitched, her chest tightening, but just as the panic was about to take hold, she later found them crumpled at the bottom of her backpack.

Ten more minutes passed before she finally composed herself and arrived downstairs.

It has been two minutes now since she joined Shiro on the large dining table.

“Doesn’t the food look a bit too much?” she asks, nudging at Shiro’s attention.

Shiro gives a half-shrug and continues scrolling through his Instagram feed. “I don’t know. There are five plates, though, which means five people are supposed to be here.”

Veronica’s brows pull together and she begins to count. “Okay, you and I are already two. Snow White makes us three. Who are the remaining two?”

“That’ll be Captain Gambino and Miss Aiko,” Mr. Putin answers, arriving at the table again with a stainless steel bowl, steam curling from its lid. His smile is pleasant, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Veronica’s mind latches onto the names. Especially Miss Aiko. Who is that?

Before she can turn to Mr. Putin and ask, a deep voice, laced with an Italian accent, cuts through the air.

“Putin.”

The sound of heavy boots against tiles follows, and then he appears—an unfamiliar young man lowering himself into a chair with the easy confidence of someone who belongs.

His sharp eyes are the darkest shade of black Veronica has ever seen—polished obsidian, piercing and unreadable. His onyx hair is styled into a messy pompadour, a silver ring gleaming at the corner of his lower lip. Dark ink curls up his neck in the shape of a snarling snake—the exact tattoo Raidon has on his neck, too.

Veronica’s stomach twists slightly at the sight of it. And thinking about it, all the soldiers she has been able to get a good look at since she arrived also have the same tattoo on the same spot.

Why? What does it mean?

“Damn,” Shiro mutters under his breath, his eyes lingering a bit on the young man. “He’s kinda…”

Whatever Shiro is about to say gets cut off by an irritated, high-pitched voice.

“Chert voz’mi proiskhodit?” ‘What the hell is happening here?’

The owner of the voice strides into the dining room, her thigh-high leather boots clacking against the floor like the slow tick of a bomb. She’s petite, the same height as Veronica, yet she carries herself like she owns the room. Her feline eyes narrow down on Veronica and Shiro.

Veronica straightens instinctively. That’s definitely Miss Aiko.

“Miss Aiko, Captain Gambino…” Mr. Putin’s gaze bounces between them before he gestures his hand to Veronica and Shiro. “These are the boss’s guests from the United States. And he has asked us to treat them kindly.”

“Odd,” Captain Gambino muses, his sharp gaze resting intently on Veronica. “He didn’t mention that he was expecting guests.”

“I don’t think he knew they were coming either,” Mr. Putin murmurs under his breath, low enough that it almost goes unnoticed.

For some reason, the butler’s comment makes Gambino’s lip twitch in amusement. “The uncle I know doesn’t usually open his door to uninvited guests, though. I’m really curious. What changed?”

Uncle?

Veronica blinks at him. Raidon has a nephew? Though the guy looks like he hasn’t even kissed teenager years goodbye, Veronica still can’t believe Raidon has a sister old enough to have a teenage son. She doesn’t even know he has a sister at all.

Gambino’s gaze slides back to Veronica. “So, what’s your name?”

For a second, she really feels the question is meant for her—his eyes are on her, after all. But before she can open her mouth, his gaze shifts to Shiro.

“Shiro,” Shiro replies, his brows knitted in confusion.

“Not you, blondie.” Gambino rolls his eyes, his gaze shifting back to Veronica. “I’m talking to her.”

“Veronica. But you can call me Vee.”

“Why?” His brow arches.

She blinks. “Um, cause Veronica is a bit wordy? And besides, my friend calls me Vee and I like it.”

A half-smirk tugs at his lips. “But I’m not your friend.”

Shiro mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like ‘asshole’, but Gambino only glances at him with mild amusement.

“So, what’s Raidon’s relationship with them?” The lady—Aiko, as the butler has called her—speaks up, her tone sharp and laced with irritation.

Gambino leans into his chair, looking far too entertained. “I wouldn’t know now, would I? Go ask him yourself. He’s your brother, after all.”

Brother, huh?

Veronica releases a frustrated sigh. So this is Raidon’s sister? Of course, she should have been able to tell the moment she walked in. It isn’t like she has everything in common with Raidon. Yes, it’s obvious that she looks Asian, but unlike Raidon, she has normal skin tone, ebony black hair, and dark brown eyes. There’s no resemblance, no matter how little between him and her.

“He never told me he had a sister,” Veronica murmurs, mostly to herself.

“What?” Aiko demands, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing,” she quickly says. “It’s just…he never mentioned that he had any sister, let alone two.”

“I told you, you didn’t know him,” Shiro whispers, leaning in. Irritated, she drives her elbow into his ribs, causing a quiet wince from him.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Aiko huffs irritatedly, looking beyond troubled.

“When it comes to him, nothing has to make sense to you,” Gambino scoffs. “I thought you knew this already?”

“Still,” Aiko mutters, lifting a spoon into her hand, then drags her plate closer to her. “This is Raidon we are talking about. He is supposed to hate people. How could he have friends?” The word friends sounds foreign on her tongue as she turns to Veronica with a sneer.

“Sorry, do you have a problem with me or something?” The question is out before Veronica can stop it. But she’s severely getting irritated by the second. What’s the woman’s problem, anyway?

Aiko turns to look at her, her expression flat. “Are you just catching on? Yes, I have a problem with you.”

“This is so interesting,” Gambino muses, studying Veronica with mild interest.

“Look, I think you all should start your meal before it gets cold,” Mr. Putin suggests, his smile never faltering. Veronica doesn’t even realize that he has still been hovering around the table all this while.

“Whatever question anyone has, I’m sure Mr. Volkov will give you all the answers when he gets back,” Mr. Putin adds.

Veronica’s gaze drifts to the head of the table where a single plate remains untouched. He is supposed to be here. So where is he?

Her stomach tightens.

Is he avoiding me?

“Is he going to come for dinner at all?” she asks.

“Why?” Aiko is the first to speak, her tone filled with disdain. “Do you need him to feed you?”

Gambino rolls his eyes, his jaw faintly twitching. “Can you not be immature for a second? It might shock you to know, but she’s not the cause of your problems.”

Then he turns to Veronica, shrugging. “He might not come. He hardly comes down for dinner.”

Her chest tightens. How can he be the one providing all this and he doesn’t eat well?

“Well, is he home right now?” she asks, voice quieter this time.

“Oh my god!” Aiko slams her hands on the table. “Will you just shut up for a second?”

Gambino makes a frustrated sound that echoes through the room.

“Vee,” Shiro whispers. “Just eat, okay?”

“Sergei!” Gambino suddenly calls out to the armed man hovering near the dining room.

“Yes, Captain?!”

“Is the Boss home yet?”

“No, Captain!”

Gambino looks back at her. “Have your questions been answered?”

Veronica sighs, poking at her food. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The clinging of steel against China ware echoes in the room. But Veronica doesn’t feel like eating. Not when all she can think about is where Raidon is and why he hasn’t come to see her.

It’s 12 midnight and Veronica is still awake working on a commission she received right after her exams finished. It has been pending because the owner hasn’t paid the deposit. But earlier this evening, right after the chaotic dinner, the deposit finally dropped in her PayPal.

Being in a strange place, she found it hard to sleep. Instead of staring at the ceiling, she decided to work on the art.

She drags her stylus across the screen, attempting the perfect arch for the dragon’s claws. Then a knock comes on the door, puncturing the silence.

The stylus pauses mid-stroke.

“Come in,” she calls, assuming it’s Shiro.

She doesn’t bother turning around. “Let me guess, you can’t sleep because it’s not your room, right?” A teasing lilt colors her voice as the door creaks open, splitting the still air with a breath of something dense and unspoken. “Me too.”

But the reply that follows isn’t Shiro’s. “Is that why you can’t sleep too?”

Her spine locks, every nerve in her body snapping to attention. The timbre of his voice, low and rich with something that feels like both sin and salvation, has her pulse skidding. A chill ripples through her, but it isn’t fear. It’s something else, something dark.

His scent sweeps over her, thick with sandalwood and rose, so intoxicating she can almost feel the taste on her tongue.

She turns to look at him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, hands buried in his pockets, his head tilted just enough to make her stomach fold into itself. Shadows cling to him, stretching over his sharp jaw, pooling in his iridescent eyes.

“Hi,” she whispers, placing her stylus atop her tablet.

He pushes himself off the doorframe and shuts the door gently behind him.

He takes a step further in and her heart races faster, his scent thickening, becoming the air she breathes. And the closer he gets, the more his presence weighs against her skin like something tangible, something intoxicating.

He comes and sits sideways on the dresser in front of her, his leg brushing against her knee with a weight so light, she wants to throw herself into his arms, the way she wanted to at the airport, to make up for the lost days, the silence, the sleepless night. She wants to grip him tight enough to hurt.

But she doesn’t. Because she’s a coward. Because part of her is expecting his rejection again.

“Why are you still awake?”

She shrugs, feigning indifference. “Couldn’t sleep.”

A low breath escapes his lips. His eyes scan the room, then return to the dresser where her tablet is placed.

“What’s that?”

She follows his gaze to the dimly lit screen. “Falkor.” A smile tugs at her lips. “He’s a dragon from Children of No Gods. I doubt you have read the book yet.”

“I haven’t.” His voice is low, though layered with something she can’t quite explain.

She returns her gaze to him, and her smile gently falters. He is watching her. His eyes are tired, exhaustion evident in the bags under them. Yet something lurks in that gaze, something unreadable, wild, making her inside coil and her breath catch.

“You didn’t come for dinner,” she says, softer than intended. “Your sister and nephew were very interesting characters.”

“I was busy,” he says in a way that makes it obvious it’s an excuse, not a fact. “And I feel like I’m supposed to have told you about Riccardo and Aiko.”

“Yeah, you should,” she says, her voice quiet, she doubts he heard her.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She waves a dismissive hand.

Her eyes drift over him. He’s wearing the usual white dress shirt and black pants. But unlike the many times she has seen him physically, his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing tattoos she doesn’t recognize.

Something about them is unsettlingly beautiful.

Without thinking, she reaches out, fingertips tracing the inked lines and curves, connecting dots and edges. A slight tremor ripples through him. And she hears it, a sound—a barely there erratic hum.

Her eyes flicker to his.

“I didn’t know you had more tattoos,” she says, abandoning his forearm to grasp his left hand. Her thumb brushes over the words just above the pulse on his wrist.

“What does it mean?”

“Memento mori,” he murmurs, the words wrapping around his voice like smoke, his eyes never straying from her. “ Remember you must die.”

Her lips part slightly. “Dark. But very true.”

A thick silence settles between them, charged and waiting as her fingers mindlessly trail the lines in his palm like a fortune teller.

“Why have you come here?” he asks, his voice low, too low.

Her fingers freeze, her heart stuttering.

“Because I wanted to see you.” She doesn’t look at him when she says it. She doesn’t want to lose her nerves. “Because I missed you.”

“You’re going to ruin everything by coming here, Veronica.” The words ignite something fierce in her.

“Ruin what?”

She gently rises to her feet.

But he doesn’t flinch. He just watches her with a lazy, unreadable expression.

“I know I said we could be friends, but I can’t be your friend Veronica.” The words land like a punch to her ribs. “I thought it was for the best when you blocked me”

“What?” Her breath halts.

“I wanted to be something more. And I would have been but—” he pauses and her pulse pounds. “But you will not be safe with me.”

A thick silence stretches between them.

“Why?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

He steps off the dresser. He takes too slow, yet deliberate steps until he’s hovering over her.

One hand lifts, his finger ghosting along her jaw.

His thumb drags her lower lip, a featherlight touch, so delicate it shouldn’t make her tremble the way it does. But it does.

His actions catch her off guard. This is the most intimate he has ever been with her. She wishes her heart can calm down so she can focus on treasuring every moment.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he murmurs, leaning in, his breath warm against her lips, thick with coffee and mint.

“But I wanted to be here.” Her lashes flutter, her hand resting on his hand chest, while the other clutches the hem of the baggy T shirt she is wearing.

His hand skims her side, lowering to her waists, his finger gripping her tight as if he can’t get close enough. “ He will never let you go.”

Her blood turns ice cold.

He?

Who the hell is he talking about?