“Or maybe, it makes me more discerning…good at spotting cracks in the foundation.” Gabriel presses his body to my side. “Do me a favor. Don’t try so hard to stand out. It only makes us want a piece of you.”

  Unease twists my gut, and he chuckles. “Tread carefully. These waters are rough. Who you align yourself with can have…consequences.” Gabriel points his finger at a group of Asians. “Over there…the Kongs. Brutal bastards. If you think the Berishas are cruel, you haven’t met them yet.”

  A rowdy cheer erupts in the room, followed by the clinking of glasses. “The Ivanovs. Control Eastern Europe. Your Berishas hate them. The Russians are buddies with the O’Callaghans. I think it’s the alcohol.”

  “They’re not my Berishas.”

  “They aren’t? Interesting. Probably a good thing. The Berishas aren’t doing well, and they know it.” He hums under his breath. “Finally, on your far right are the Alvarezes. Don’t be charmed by their good looks. You’ll lose a limb before you notice.” He raises his glass toward a group of stunning brown-haired men and women.

  “And let me guess,” I point to the group of dark-haired men and women, who have hair so blond it’s almost white, “the Carusos. Your family. The pure angels?”

  He clasps his chest, looking wounded. “Why, of course. I’m here welcoming you, aren’t I?”

  I roll my eyes. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “I have a vested interest in your husband. I’d like him to stay alive…longer.”

  A wiry man walks to the center of the room and checks his watch. He looks familiar. “It’s six-thirty. Dinner begins in half an hour.”

  Gabriel snorts. “The Scheduler. He’s a stickler for dates and times, in case you can’t tell.”

  The name tugs the memory from my mind. He was the man at the vault, and during the other night at the club, the Berishas mentioned him being against Gabriel. Something about an impending coup.

  “Does he have a name?”

  “He does.” His lips flatten. “But it’s not important. Some people are destined to be inconsequential and to do menial tasks. My family doesn’t like the spotlight.”

  A pillar of heat materializes to my right.

  “Caruso,” Elias’s voice cuts in, tight and deadly, “what are you doing with my wife?”

  The wiseass shrugs and steps back. “Keeping her company. A doe like her will be devoured in minutes. A gentleman wouldn’t leave the vulnerable unattended.”

  His smile ices over when he looks at me. “If you ever need an ally, I’m one call away.”

  He stuffs a card into my hand and walks away.

  I gape, flabbergasted.

  “What is it with you attracting motherfuckers who give you their numbers?” Elias snaps.

  Indignation straightens my spine. “Maybe everyone senses this whole thing is a farce and they want to rescue me, husband,” I seethe.

  I down my drink in one gulp and set it on the table. “I’m going to the restroom. Excuse me.”

  I feel his gaze burning into my back as I walk away.

  Den of wolves, my ass.

  It’s a sea of sharks—each one smelling blood.

  Chapter 36: THE HUNT

  “That wasn’t very smart.” Sebastian sidles up to me at the refreshments table, where I’m currently drowning my anger in whiskey.

  Gabriel, the Caruso heir, converses with his siblings, a bunch of good-looking motherfuckers. He arches a brow at me, flashing a taunting smile. I want to kill the bastard for flirting with my wife.

  “You standing next to me isn’t very smart.” I scan the room. “Shouldn’t we pretend not to know each other?”

  “That’s illogical. Everyone knows Elias Kent. It’ll be a red flag to pretend otherwise.” He chuckles under his breath. “And I’m anything but—”

  “Illogical. Yes, I get it.”

  “I told them I was scoping you out. Networking. They want a piece of you.” He clinks his glass against mine and lets out a fake laugh. “Those dirty secrets you hold make you the biggest target in the room.”

  I glance at him. His slicked-back hair gleams under the candlelight. The fucking smile actually reaches his eyes, the damn psycho.

  “Oh, the Berishas look uncomfortable. Edon might pop his artery. Then we’ll finally get some entertainment in this godforsaken place,” Sebastian quips before he belts out a louder laugh. “Or we can always talk about Sri Lanka. That’ll work.”

  The psycho doesn’t need an audience. He’s a one-man comedy act, laugh track included.

  I smirk. “You’re a manipulative bastard.”

  “Human emotions are boring. Predictable. Now, lean in, whisper something in my ear.”

  I restrain myself from rolling my eyes, but I don’t move. I have standards. I’m not whispering shit in anyone’s ear.

  Sebastian sighs and twirls his penknife. His voice drops as he leans down and whispers, “Basement and first floor are cleared. Third floor’s under reno. That leaves the second floor. Two guards, no visible weapons. Aleksei’s looping the cameras at your signal. You have ten minutes.”

  He downs his drink in one gulp. Someone from the O’Callaghan clan beckons him. “I’m being summoned. Give me a secret. A good one. I need a reaction.”

  Sebastian specifically instructed me not to tell him secrets beforehand. Because his family knows about his condition, his usual masking doesn’t work on them. They watch him for cracks, for tells. He needs shock to sell the illusion of genuine emotions.

  I flick my lighter and nod at him to lean in. He does.

  “Dimitri Ivanov bartered a deal with your Ronan O’Callaghan. Twenty percent of your next month’s weapons imports for him to look the other way. Because Ronan is fucking Yuri Ivanov’s daughter. Opportunistic bastard.” I click my tongue. “All of you led by your dicks.”

  Sebastian lets out a slow whistle. “Good one,” he murmurs. I can hear the sadistic glee in his voice. “Didn’t have to fake that reaction. Uncle Ronan, sixty and bedding a co-ed. Who knew?”

  He mock-salutes me with his empty glass before facing the crowd.

  But before he slips away, he lowers his voice. “The comment about dicks. Watch where yours lead.”

  The jab lands, and I don’t respond. Instead, I keep my eyes trained on my wife, who’s chatting up one of the wives or girlfriends of some nobody. She hurls a seething glare my way.

  And God help me, because my cock twitches.

  “You motherfucker!” Yuri yells.

  Chaos breaks out. Fists fly. Glass shatters. Women scream.

  The O’Callaghans and Ivanovs brawl. Boris Ivanov, the Russian patriarch, turns crimson trying to pull his sons from the Irish. The princess in question buries her face in her mom’s shoulder.

  Sebastian winks. I smile. Here’s my window.

  Rook Elias

  Go boom.

  I slip out of the ballroom and head up the stairs, knowing Aleksei has the cameras looped.

  The two guards are nowhere to be seen.

  “You go right, I go left,” a soft voice says at the landing.

  Sofia, dressed in a dark green gown, points down the hallway.

  “Where did you put them?”

  She grins. “A sudden onset of bad diarrhea. Courtesy of a small little prick.” She flashes two tiny pins laced with meds, no doubt. “We have five minutes max before they call for replacements.”

  I nod. “Be careful.”

  We split. I check room after room—a library, a gallery, both ornate but abandoned.

  Fucking show-offs.

  Lana would love these rooms.

  I shove the stray thought aside and head down the hall. Two bedrooms. The air is musty, so I doubt anyone’s been in here for ages.

  Before I leave the room, I hear a door creaking. Not Sofia, judging by the heavy footsteps.

  I plaster myself against the wall, gun raised, breath held.

  A man moves past me, his strides quick.

  I peek through the gap. Black tuxedo, tall frame, black mask.

  Not one of us. Who’s joining the party?

  The mystery man moves like a phantom, hand tucked inside his jacket. Holding a weapon, most likely.

  He opens the last door and slips in, quietly closing it behind him.

  My pulse ricochets. I curse myself for being too slow.

  Is this the ledger exchange? Or something else?

  Minutes crawl. The man isn’t coming out.

  My phone buzzes.

  Queen Sofi

  No ledger. Only bedrooms. You?

  Fuck.

  I glance at the time. It’s been ten minutes. Whatever he’s doing, he should be done by now. I can’t wait anymore.

  Quickly, I walk out of the room, shoulders back. Guilt is easy to spot. Confidence makes people second guess.

  I head to the last room, curl my hand around the doorknob, and twist.

  It’s unlocked.

  Gun ready, I walk into the darkness. My eyes readjust. I make out bookshelves, a large desk, and a settee. This is a study. A pristine one at that.

  But no one is here. Where did the phantom go?

  Sweat drips down my neck. I sweep the room, checking the usual suspects—empty vases, hollow books, anywhere anyone can hide a small USB drive.

  It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

  Then I see it.

  A notebook lies open on the coffee table in the far corner. Smoke curls from a blown-out candle.

  I cross the room.

  My breath freezes when I read the writing.

  Better luck next time, Elias.

  Or should I say, Kian Leste.

  A for effort though.

  Here’s a consolation prize.

  Beneath it, a photograph taken at a deli near my childhood home. An image of a tall man wearing all black.

  Time-stamped February twenty-eighth, twenty years ago.

  My vision narrows, anger so intense I can taste it. The photo crinkles under my death grip.

  I know that face. The eyes. That sickening smile.

  Çela’s partner, the other killer that day.

  Someone’s onto me, but I can’t bring myself to care.

  All I can think of is—kill.

  Chapter 37: SHARP EDGES AND SOFT CARESSẸS

  Silverware clatters on plates. Chairs squeak on parquet floors. A string quartet’s version of “Joy to the World” plays in the background. The dinner portion of this ball is in full swing.

  The aroma of butter-poached lobster and applewood-smoked quail, or the sweetness of the dark chocolate spiced curry scallops should entice me.

  But my stomach twists instead.

  I’m all too aware of the empty seat beside me, where my husband should be. As much as I don’t want to, a thread of worry tugs at my chest.

  Where is Elias? He was supposed to be back before dinner began.

  Why are you worried about him? He’s a butcher; he can damn well take care of himself.

  I poke at the garden salad with my fork.

  “Lana dear,” a familiar silken voice purrs.

  I stiffen and look up. Shkelzen stares at me, the same slimy smile on his face.

  “Your husband left you. Probably too tired of your ice-queen act.”

  “At least he has a queen.” I spear some lettuce and stuff it into my mouth.

  It was that or stab him in the eye.

  He chuckles, nudging Agron. “The Anderson airs. They always thought they were too good for us.”

  “And yet, here we are.” Agron smirks. “Her brothers are doing our bidding now. All to protect their precious younger sister.”

  He swivels his tumbler, arrogance dripping off his frame. “What was it, cousin? Ten million? Or thirty? The amount of money we laundered through their hotels last month?”

  “Fifty. All tied to their name.” Shkelzen chuckles, eyes full of victory. “Prime crop, our recent shipment from Lithuania. The girls aren’t even eighteen, but have the best tits and ass I’ve seen in a while.”

  My knuckles tighten around my fork, face heating from rage.

  We Andersons pride ourselves on our good name. We give back to the community. Open shelters. Donate to charities. It’s our philosophy.

  And now, we’re tied to human trafficking.

  Because of me.

  My shoulders quake, tears burning behind my eyes.

  Because of something I’m supposed to get at thirty-five. And I still have zero clue what it is.

  We’re sitting ducks.

  “And now, poor Lana has been dumped by her husband. Frigid bitch. Probably because she can’t fuck.”

  The men laugh. My veins turn to ice.

  “At least I’m not fucking you!” I snap, unable to help myself.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Shkelzen’s face darkens. He grabs my wrist and yanks me up.

  Glasses knock onto the floor. Shocked gasps erupt in the room.

  He twists my arm, and pain steals my breath. Fabric rips—the bastard tore off the strap of my dress. I gasp, clutching the tattered silk with my free hand.

  “You fucking whore, how dare—”

  Bang!

  I flinch. Wetness splatters my face. The shot rings in my skull.

  Everything freezes for a heartbeat. I look down.

  Shkelzen’s hand has a gaping hole in it.

  Screams of terror erupt. Chaos descends. Chairs knocked on the ground. Guns drawn, the security rushes in.

  Movement comes from my right. A flash of black and green—Elias. He slams Shkelzen’s face on the table and grabs a steak knife.

  Then a gurgled scream and blood.

  Lots of blood.

  Elias tosses something red onto the floor.

  “A tongue!” Someone gasps.

  My stomach lurches, but I can’t look away.

  “What did I tell you last time?” Elias rasps into the bleeding man’s ear. “Touch my wife and lose a hand.”

  Shkelzen howls in agony. He swats at Elias, but it’s useless.

  “Because you didn’t listen, I threw in a tongue removal.” Elias yanks Shkelzen up and drags him to my feet.

  “Didn’t your mom tell you, if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all?” Elias looks up, pinning me with his blazing green eyes. “Apologize to my wife. Wipe the blood from her shoes.”

  I shake my head, but my husband’s glare roots me.

  I’m to stay put. This is a matter of respect.

  Shkelzen crawls, his bloody hand grazing my shoe. He smudges the blood away with a napkin.

  “I-It’s fine,” I whisper.

  When I look up, five guns are pointed at Elias. Edon’s face flushes, eyes murderous.

  “How dare you?” he rasps.

  Agron snarls, his aim unwavering. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do this.”

  Elias wipes his hands with a napkin. He stares at his dirty tux in clear dismay.

  “Fuck.” He tsks under his breath. “Such perfect craftsmanship. Ruined.”

  Agron jams the muzzle harder into his temple.

  A sick smile curves Elias’s lips. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  He nods at the O’Callaghans and Ivanovs, who have paused their earlier brawl. “That was appetizer. Dead man’s switch, gentlemen. I have more where that came from. Much more.”

  Then he faces Edon. “What type of man would I be if I let someone disrespect my wife? And remember what happened in Sri Lanka.”

  Someone coughs. One of the O’Callaghans shakes with laughter.

  Edon’s face ashens. He sits down.

  “Sit! Continue!” he commands. “Get Shkelzen to a hospital.”

  People scurry at his command.

  Elias dusts off his tux and offers his arm. “Wife. Shall we?”

  Wordlessly, I nod, still clutching my ruined dress. I take his arm as he leads me away.

  Whispers buzz, silverware clinks. “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” plays now. Normalcy resumes, and someone laughs.

  These monsters.

  My legs quake as we enter the main hall. But Elias is sturdy. He holds me up.

  “Shhh,” he hushes me again, the back of his hand grazing my skin.

  Like he doesn’t want to dirty me with his bloodstained fingers.

  “A sewing kit,” he barks at an attendant.

  He steers me into a dark room and turns on the light. It’s a sitting room.

  The attendant returns and hands him the kit.

  The room tilts when I sit down. My heart won’t stop racing. I clutch at my ruined dress like a lifeline.

  “Deep breaths,” he murmurs, “it’ll be okay.”

  Okay? Nothing about this is okay.

  He frowns as he fiddles with the torn fabric. His touch is gentle and reverent.

  “I hate that they touched you, my zemër,” he says softly.

  His fingers trail down my arm. Flutters awake in my lower belly.

  “What does that mean? Zemër?” He’s called me that a few times before.

  A small smile curves his lips, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, a seductive warmth fills his gaze.

  My heart races for a different reason. Slowly, he lifts my throbbing wrist and presses a gentle kiss on the red marks left by the asshole. The violence dissolves into tenderness. Desire curls between my legs.

  What does this make me?

  But I can’t find it in me to care anymore.

  The seconds drag as Elias stares at the bruise forming on my wrist.

  “I will kill him,” Elias growls, starting to rise.

  “Don’t.”

  He halts, his chest lifting and falling rapidly. His eyes sear mine as his throat works.

  With a nod, he sits down and takes out his phone. Soon, “Für Elise” plays from the speakers.

  My heart pounds, my gaze darts to him.

  “Music can heal…at least, for someone like you.”

  Something in my heart breaks at the resignation in his voice.

  He thinks it’s too late for him.

  Elias doesn’t look at me as he rummages through the sewing kit. He licks the string before threading the needle, the motion practiced.

  My eyes burn, remembering the boy who used to work in garment sweatshops after school to put food on the table. The boy who smelled like sewing machine oil, who had calluses on his thumbs.