Chapter 8
8
LYRA
The Barone mansion is ridiculous.
It’s not just big—it’s opulent in that old-world, aristocratic Italian way. All stone and carved balconies, vast windows that reflect the city lights, stairs leading up to massive double doors that probably alone cost more than my rent.
I’ve walked by it before—I mean the thing is right across the street from the 79 th street entrance to Central Park. I just never realized that this was the Barone house.
God DAMN, Bianca…
Now that I’m here, standing in the grand marble foyer, trying not to gawk at the high ceilings and gold accents, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
This house doesn’t feel like a home.
It feels like a fortress.
And right now, I am wildly out of place.
After giving my name to a man in a suit with an iPad, I glance around, taking stock of the competition. Most of them are mafia, that much is obvious. Polished, poised, wearing expensive dresses. In the criminal world, marrying into the Barone empire would be a huge connection for any family. So they’ve sent their daughters.
Some huddle together in small clusters, whispering and gossiping, picking at manicured fingernails. Others sit alone, reading the room with sharp gazes.
I’m honestly debating turning around and leaving when I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Lyra?”
Mother. Fucker.
Milena.
I cringe, my stomach twisting. Just showing up here was already hell on my anxiety. But bumping into someone I know?
Shoot me.
With a groan, I force a neutral expression on my face and turn to face her.
She looks me up and down. “Okay, explain. What the hell are you doing here?”
“What are… you doing here?”
Truly masterful reply, self.
She gestures to the crowd of girls in the living room.
“To watch the absolute train wreck of this night unfold,” she giggles quietly, leaning into me. "Same as you, I assume?"
I let out a nervous laugh, playing along.
“I mean, look at them,” Milena continues, amused. “Can you imagine showing up to something like this, hoping some man picks you to be his wife? Like, what year is it? Gross. ”
“Hah, yeah, seriously,” I mumble. “Gross,” I nod, pretending to agree.
But that’s exactly what I’m here to do.
Unlike Milena, I don’t have the luxury of watching this for entertainment. I’m here because I need the money.
I'm all out of options.
Before I can dwell on it, the energy in the room shifts and a few girls go quiet, their gazes flicking to the entrance.
I turn to follow their stares. I have no idea who the girl is that’s just waltzed in, but she’s around my age, and she's freaking gorgeous .
Not just pretty. The kind of beautiful that turns heads everywhere. Dark hair, tan skin, and crazy intense emerald-green eyes.
She’s impeccably put together—high heels clicking on the marble, a designer dress hugging her curves, her hair done in a way that makes her look both glamorous and like it's no effort at all.
Milena watches her skeptically. “Now that’s interesting.”
I glance at her. “Why? Who is that?”
“Gabriella De Luca.”
The name doesn’t mean squat to me, but it clearly does to the other girls here.
Milena leans in, lowering her voice. “As in Nero De Luca’s younger sister.”
Still blank.
Milena sighs. “Jesus, Lyra, do you pay any attention to mafia world gossip?”
“Should I?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well—the De Lucas and the Barones don’t exactly love each other. They’re do business together, but it’s…prickly. So I hear, at least.”
I watch as Gabriella makes her way to the living room, ignoring the stares she’s getting.
“Plus,” Milena continues, “there’s no way in hell Gabriella needs money.”
Fair. I mean, the girl is dressed head to toe in Versace and looks like she bathes in champagne and diamonds every morning.
“And,” Milena adds, “there is no fucking way her brother would be okay with her even being here.”
“Why not?” I ask.
Milena lets out a low laugh. “Because Nero’s insane .”
I raise a brow. “That bad?”
“ Worse than bad,” she says. “The guy’s got major control issues. Psychopath-level. Huge fucking ego, too. God’s gift to the world. You know, basically a one-man red flag parade. If he finds out Gabriella’s here, this place is gonna turn into a crime scene. ”
Before I can ask another question, the air suddenly shifts again as a new presence fills the doorway.
Milena groans. “ Fuck, here we go.” She makes a face, nodding her chin at the tall, darkly handsome built guy entering the living room. “Presenting Nero.”
Gabriella swept into the room like she owned it. Her older brother, meanwhile, struts in like he owns the entire world , and expects it to drop to its collective knee and kiss his ring.
He looks almost like a fighter. Dark brown hair, just tousled enough to make it clear he doesn’t give a shit, a boldly Italian look, and the same bright green eyes as his younger sister, assessing everyone in the room as either useful or worthless. Which just seems like such an unnecessary trait for someone with his chiseled bone structure and ridiculously good looks.
Tattoos peek from beneath the collar of his black dress shirt, curling over his forearms.
The room goes silent as he steps in, two big guys in suits right behind him. Everything about him radiates control, confidence, and an unsettling sort of violent energy.
His gaze finally lands on Gabriella and his jaw sets.
Milena, still watching wide-eyed, lets out a low whistle.
“Damn,” she murmurs. “Shit’s about to get interesting .”
The tension in the room increases the second Nero starts moving toward Gabriella. He doesn’t rush. He walks like someone who’s never had to force people out of his way because they move the second they see him coming.
Gabriella, however, does not budge.
She unhurriedly pulls an elegant silver cigarette case from her designer purse, opens it, and deftly slips a cigarette between her soft lips. Her green eyes lift as her brother storms over, raising her chin just slightly.
I don’t know a thing about their family dynamic, but I know a power struggle when I see one.
Nero stops in front of her, his gaze razor-sharp. “Time to leave, Gabby," he says curtly, his voice rough.
Gabriella blinks, then lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Nero murmurs, low and deliberate. “Whatever game you’re playing, it ends now. Let’s go . You don’t belong here.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you. I’m confident you rank pretty low on Carmine Barone’s list of wife material.”
A few of the girls shift awkwardly in their seats, pretending not to have heard. Milena, on the other hand, looks like she’s dying for some popcorn, extra butter and damn the calories.
Nero doesn’t react, doesn’t blink. Just stares, his posture relaxed but tense underneath.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says.
Gabriella puts the unlit cigarette away, then taps a manicured finger to her lips, mock-pensive. “Wouldn’t be my first. Probably won’t be my last.”
“You’re twenty-four years old, Gabby. You shouldn’t need a babysitter to keep you out of trouble.”
“Nor do I want a keeper, and yet, here we are.”
His jaw grinds. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Wow,” Gabriella deadpans. “ Such an original argument. Get that trademarked.”
A muscle flexes in Nero’s forearm. “I’m done playing games, Gabriella. We’re leaving. Now.”
She leans in slightly, her voice soft, mocking. “Or you’ll—what? Ground me? Take my phone? Cancel my credit cards?”
Nero lets out a slow breath. “Rossi. Bianchi.”
The two men who entered with him immediately drift forward.
Gabriella takes a step back, her amusement flickering—just briefly—before hardening into something else.
“You wouldn’t ,” she mutters.
Nero smiles. It’s not friendly. Not even close.
“Wouldn’t I?”
The two guards each grab an arm.
She thrashes, heels slipping and sliding on the polished marble. “Get your fucking hands off me! Goddammit, Nero! You psycho!”
Suddenly, the heavy doors to the study slide open. A gruff-looking Carmine Barone steps out, brows drawn, sleeves pushed up like he was in the middle of something. A terrified-looking young woman scurries out of the study after him, like she can’t wait to be done with the interview.
I swallow nervously as my eyes land on the man whose hand was wrapped around my throat in the dark alley the other night.
Carmine’s eyes immediately lock on Nero.
“What the fuck is going on?” he growls.
Nero barely glances at him, the corners of his mouth twitching up in mocking amusement.
“Sorry to crash your…whatever this is,” Nero smirks.
Carmine exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders as he steps forward.
“Keep your family issues under your own roof,” he murmurs quietly to Nero.
“Working on it, pal,” Nero mutters back.
Okay, clearly, they know each other. Well. And whatever "prickliness" between their families Milena was talking about before doesn’t seem to be there right now.
I glance at Milena, who's still watching them with the same keen curiosity.
Nero shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Anyway, I’m out of your way as soon as I can take out the trash.”
“ Fuck you , Nero!” Gabriella fires over her shoulder.
Carmine scoffs, but there’s no humor in it. “C’mon, man. Be nice.” He smirks. “Or maybe I’ll have to pick her for my wife just to piss you off.”
Nero smiles. And holy shit , is it a deranged one. More like a flash of teeth from a rabid wild animal before it attacks.
“I think you know me well enough to understand what a godawful idea it is to piss me off.”
Carmine says nothing.
“Anyway, enjoy this…truly romantic occasion, Carmy,” Nero snickers, turning to glance at the girls. He gives Carmine one last nod before he turns, ignoring the hurled curses from his sister as his men drag her out through the front door, with Nero following right behind.
Carmine exhales slowly. “ Fuck ,” he grunts to no one before turning and walking back into his study, closing the doors. Suddenly, I hear a gasp behind us.
“Guys?”
Milena and I spin at the same time to see a confused-looking Bianca staring at us.
“Um…” Her face pales. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Milena giggles quietly. “Don’t worry. We’re just here for the show,” she snickers, elbowing me. “It’s not like either of us are seriously here to audition to marry?—”
“Lyra Ostrova?”
My spine snaps rigid.
“Ostrova,” the man with the iPad who checked me in earlier grunts, louder this time. “You’re up.”
My face turns bright red as Milena and Bianca both turn to stare at me.
“Dude… What are you doing?” Milena hisses.
“I—I’m sorry,” I blurt, my eyes darting to Bianca. “I’m so sorry.”
And then I turn and scurry over to the man with the iPad.
Carmine watches me like a predator deciding if I’m worth the effort of the hunt.
He sits across from me on a low, expensive-looking couch identical to the one I’m sitting on, an arm draped along the back, fingers tapping the leather. Between us, a sleek coffee table gleams in the dim light, separating his world from mine.
My hands twist in my lap. I feel like I’m at the most awkward job interview of all time.
I don’t belong here.
I know it. He knows it.
I also don’t have a choice.
Carmine leans forward slightly, the corners of his mouth curving in a slow, mirthless smile.
“Well, well,” he murmurs. “If it isn’t Miss Nobody, who heard nothing.”
My stomach tightens.
It takes a second for me to remember the words from our first meeting in the alley behind the theater, when I was pressed against the wall, his hand wrapped around my throat.
I hold his gaze. “I prefer Lyra, actually.”
His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Well, Lyra , let’s get into it, then. You know this interview was specifically for women from mafia families, right?”
I nod, trying to keep my breathing steady. “I’m aware.”
Carmine tilts his head, studying me like a specimen under a microscope. “You’re Arkadi Ostrov’s daughter.”
I clench my jaw. “Yes.”
Something cold and sharp flashes across his face.
“ Mafia families ,” he repeats, his voice edged. “Not families of a psychopath who kept a harem of teenaged girls locked in a fucking basement before slaughtering them.”
My throat goes tight, but I school my expression, keeping my posture professional—like I’m at a job interview, not sitting in the lion’s den.
“So…” I clear my throat. “Do you have any questions?—”
“Stop.”
Carmine’s eyes glint, cruelly amused.
“You really think this is a normal conversation?” He leans back against the couch, spreading his arms along the top, completely at ease.
I lift my chin, trying not to hyperventilate. “I thought that was the point of an interview.”
His lips curl into a smirk. “Cute.”
The silence between us stretches out heavily. Then his gaze flicks down, zeroing in on my throat.
His expression shifts—the humor fading, darkness taking its place.
“Where’s your necklace?”
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
His eyes snap back to mine.
“Your necklace, with the ballet slipper pendant,” he repeats. “You’ve been wearing it whenever I’ve seen you, and you’re not wearing it now. Usually people wear sentimental pieces like necklaces for luck during things like this.”
My stomach drops, heat rising to my cheeks. When the hell has this man ever noticed me?
I shrug, trying to downplay it. “I…just didn’t wear it today.”
Carmine doesn’t look convinced. But after a beat, he lets it go, dragging his hand through his hair and sighing.
“All right, let’s cut the shit. This is over,” he says, pushing up from the couch. “Time for you to go.”
Anxiety flashes in my chest and I stand abruptly. “Wait?—”
“You’re obviously here because you need the money. But I’m not a charity. You’re done.”
Something inside me snaps.
No.
I can’t afford to walk out of here without this money.
Just as I'm starting to panic, Carmine reaches for a decanter, his other hand gripping a crystal tumbler as he splashes whiskey into it.
…Which is exactly when one of the lights in the room glints off a ring on his finger.
Simple. Gold.
With a gleaming black gem.
Instantly, my whole body goes still as my reality shifts.
Holy fuck .
I know that ring. I’ve felt that ring between my legs.
Tasted it with my tongue.
No.
It’s not possible.
The man who chased me through the labyrinth, pinned me against the stone wall and touched me like he owned me…
He’s standing in front of me.
And his name isn’t The Hound.
It’s Carmine fucking Barone.
Carmine knocks back half his drink, rolling his neck before he lowers the glass and turns back to me.
“I said we’re done, Miss Nobody. Get the fuck?—”
“You’re going to pick me.”
Slowly, his brow furrows, his lips curling into a curious and thoroughly unamused smile.
“Now why the hell would I do that?” he growls.
I lift my chin, steeling myself.
“Because,” I say, voice calm but razor-sharp, “if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone about your fondness for dog masks and chasing girls through underground mazes.”
The air between us throbs with a dark, lethal energy that turns my legs to jelly.
Carmine goes completely, unnervingly still, whiskey glass halfway to his lips, the ice inside shifting with a soft clink. His fingers tighten around the rocks glass, just slightly. With excruciating slowness, he sets it down on the bar cart—a quiet, controlled click of crystal against wood.
Then he moves.
Fast.
Before I can react, he’s already shoving the coffee table aside like it’s nothing, making it scrape so suddenly and violently against the floor that I flinch.
My heart climbs into my throat, choking off my scream. I backpedal instinctively, but my legs hit the couch.
Then, I’m falling.
The cushion catches me, but before I can scramble up, Carmine is there.
Towering. Looming. Caging me in.
His shadow devours me as one large, veined hand wraps around my throat, pressing me back to the couch—not choking or hurting, just holding me in place and reminding me how fucking powerless I am right now.
My breath turns quick and shallow, my pulse thrumming frantically against his palm.
He leans in, his ice-blue gaze burning into mine, lips slightly parted, like he’s debating whether to speak or bite .
“You just made the biggest mistake of your life,” he growls.
A shiver rips down my spine.
I should be afraid. And I am. But the fear is twisting into something else that I don’t want to name.
Just like last time.
His grip tightens slightly, as if he can feel it too.
I force my voice to work. “You have two options,” I whisper. “Either you pick?—”
“Do you even know what you saw the other night?” he murmurs darkly.
I swallow with difficulty against the hand around my throat. “ Yes .”
His lips curl. “No, you don’t,” he says. “You just fucking think you do. If you really did, you’d be running as fast as and as far away from me and this city as you could, and you'd bury yourself in a dark hole, and never, ever come out.”
Sirens blare in my head as his hand closes tighter around my throat. As his eyes pierce mine and he leans down close.
“If you had even an inkling of what you saw the other night, little dancer,” he snarls, “coming here and throwing it in my fucking face is the single last thing you’d ever dream of doing.”
The room is pin-drop silent when he’s finished.
Slowly, his powerful grip unwinds from my throat. His hand drops, leaving behind a throbbing, tingling sensation that makes me flinch in spite of myself as he stares down at me.
“You should have stayed Miss Nobody who heard and saw nothing, little dancer,” he growls. “Because the one fucking thing you don’t want to be with me is someone who saw far, far too much.”
He steps away, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Now run away, and pray to whatever god you believe in that I don’t feel like chasing you this time.”