Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
“That’s what we all want, isn’t it? Power without price.”
― Kelley Armstrong
Angelo
“How are the twins?”
I winced as I heard him laugh, the phone crackling like it was on its last legs. I pulled it away from my ear to save my eardrum.
You’d think that being an ex-Silas member with enough cash to last five lifetimes would convince Romaniev to upgrade his damn phone, but the bastard clung to the same old relic he’d had when he met his wife. He swore getting rid of it would bring bad luck—his words, not mine.
“They’re good. Can’t believe they’re already two,” he said with a sigh.
Three years ago, after the mess that had nearly cost Caia and Alexsei their lives—and had burned my fucking museum to the ground—the Romanievs had moved to a quiet house in New York. That’s when they’d found out they were expecting twins.
Over the years, Alexsei had become like a brother to me, and all I wanted was for him to be happy, especially after losing his first son.
“Can’t believe you’re running an all-girl household.”
He scoffed, half laughing. “More like they run me. Caia’s got her little army trained to strike right where it hurts. And that doe-eyed look they pull? Absolute weaponry. I’m a goner every time. Hopelessly wrapped around their tiny, tyrannical fingers.”
Mira and Vera were like little clones of his wife, but had Alexsei’s blue eyes and dark humor. The last time I saw them was about a month ago, before they took off on a cross-country road trip. Caia wanted to expand her work and capture every state through her lens, so Alexsei had made it happen. He bought a $750K tour bus—decked out with a bathroom, bedrooms, a kitchen, and all the luxury you could imagine.
They had left, and were currently somewhere in Washington.
“How’s Scar’? Her tour wrapped up last week, right?”
I let out a sigh and sank into my couch, my gaze drifting over the city skyline. New York at night was a beast of its own—sparkling, overflowing, and radiating an energy I still couldn’t quite put into words.
Sure, I’d grown up in Florence and spent my summers on the Amalfi Coast, but the moment I’d stepped foot in New York at ten years old, I was hooked. Its dark beauty and shiny facade were unlike anything I’d ever seen.
This place was my second home, my arena.
We’d moved here because my father had wanted to expand Lazzio Entertainment Group. He’d bought three Broadway theaters and started another movie company in Los Angeles.
That move had catapulted us into the upper echelons of wealth.
“Yeah,” I said, closing my eyes and rubbing my temple as a headache crept in. “LeRoy mentioned she was doing better. Compared to her last tour two years ago, she actually made it through without missing a single rehearsal or fumbling a show. Still, I can’t shake this bad feeling.”
He hummed. “Scarlett Harper, the biggest pop star in the world right now—and the biggest pain in your ass. Sorry you’ve got to play her manager while I’m gone, but maybe it’s the perfect chance to put the guns away and try to get along. After all, she is your cousin.”
Scarlett Harper, daughter of Lucius Harper and Francesca Lazzio—my father’s sister.
Born into privilege, Scarlett had spent her entire life as a true Upper East Sider, living the jet-set life most only dream about. Summers in the Hamptons, Cancun, or Tulum, while winters had seen her traipsing through Lapland and Aspen, or strolling through the Christmas markets in Alsace before retreating to the Alps for a taste of winter wonder.
Just like me, she’d been raised in a world of excess, where everything came easy, and consequences were an afterthought. It’s no wonder she walks around like she owns the place.
Our family time—the Harpers and the Lazzios—had become sacred after we’d moved to the States. Though we’d rarely seen each other growing up, Sunday dinners had become our tradition, where we’d talk about business, family vacations, art, and Lucious’ grand plans to make Scarlett Harper a legend of our time—a future EGOT winner with an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony to her name.
She was already part way there, having won a Grammy for Best New Artist and a Tony last year for her role as Juliette in Roméo and Juliette on Broadway. She’d debuted at our theatre, The Sunflower—a role, of course, cast by my father.
“Cousin or not, she’s fucking annoying.”
“Just like you are.”
“Shut up, stronzo. ”
I hung up a bit later and headed to the bathroom, ready to wash off the day and grab a few hours of sleep before Monday’s chaos stormed into my office—decked out in sky-high Louboutins, with fire blazing from her mouth.
“When you said you’d tear down the museum and make it something majestic, I almost believed you’d pull off something worth looking at. But red tiles? That’s the big vision? I shouldn’t be surprised—mediocrity’s kind of your brand, Lazzio.”
I instructed the movers to haul the packages up to the third floor. One of them handed me a clipboard and a pen, clearly eager to wrap this up and get out of here.
I glanced at the paper, scrawling my name with a quick swipe.
“Make sure you don’t leave any scratches on the floors,” I said, barely looking up.
They nodded and got to work.
“The red tiles are for the third floor, Miss Whitenhouse. It’s supposed to represent battlefields—red-veined marble from Greece to echo blood on stone, surrounded by sculptures and paintings of real warriors.”
I walked toward my office, feeling her trailing in my shadow.
Just before the door, I stopped and turned to meet her pretty gaze.
“Don’t ever question my taste again. You, of all people, know that greatness is my only standard.”
I shut the door firmly, the sound echoing through the room as I made my way to the chair behind my desk. The leather creaked as I settled in, surveying the stacks of paperwork and blueprints sprawled across the polished wood.
I leaned back, fingers steepled as I took a slow breath.
Jade Whitenhouse existed for one reason: to ruin my peace of mind, and keep me tethered to the edge of insanity.
The thirty-year-old stood at five foot eight, her raven-black hair spilling over her shoulders like sin itself, with eyes so dark they seemed to steal the light from the room. Her skin—pale enough to rival Morticia Addams—had an unsettling allure that was both chilling and impossible to ignore.
I should’ve fired her years ago.
Sure, her work was absolutely flawless—on paper, she was the perfect COO. But that sharp tongue of hers? It chipped away at any shred of respect she managed to earn.
And yet, despite my better judgment, I couldn’t get her out of my head.
No matter how hard I tried, my mind had decided that of all the things to fixate on, it had to be her.
More than that, she also carried one of my secrets—a sinful one.
Not big enough to dismantle my empire, but just dangerous enough to threaten my standing in the Lazzio family. One wrong move, and she could knock me down a rung I’d spent years clawing my way up to reach.
So, for now, she stayed—much to my fucking irritation.