2. Zara
ZARA
Tristan gathers us in the hotel’s conference room. On one side stand the four men leading the Syndicate. On the opposite side are the two leaders of brACON and Calla Ferrara, head of the Council.
They engage in a glaring contest, the space between them dripping with tension; it’s suffocating.
In front of the window, Rafe, Vian, and I form a wall to preserve the fragile peace. He’s so stiff beside me that I think if I touched him, he’d break apart. Strange. Why he reacts this way to me is an ongoing mystery.
Focusing on the scene in front of me, I feel the air thicken with restrained fury. A former ally, Enzo became the Syndicate’s enemy when he married the woman responsible for shooting Cato and taking back power over the Council.
Personally, maintaining balance is vital. They’re already too powerful, but if the Syndicate kept control over the Council, every deal would end in their favor, and I am a proponent of leveling the playing field.
They stare each other down while Tristan threatens them to behave, or none of them will leave his city alive. Nothing like a wedding in the underworld when one wrong look could end in bloodshed.
I steal a glance at Vian, but he notices. He clenches his jaw hard enough to pop a muscle, looking ahead. I really don’t understand this man.
Once everyone deposits their guns in Ziploc bags, we walk out, one after the other.
I move to the dining room, where Calla and Dahlia sit at a table in easy conversation. Remembering when I went to Reno and she was Enzo’s bodyguard puts a smile on my face. I knew something was going on between them.
Calla waves me over, and I walk over to them.
She pats the seat next to her. “Nice to see you.”
Both of us lead busy lives, so our conversations mostly happen on the phone.
I offer her a genuine smile. “Likewise.”
“So, what’s the deal with you and Vian?” Calla asks, popping an olive into her mouth.
This woman has no filter, always saying whatever goes through her head.
“Calla,” Dahlia chastises her, but I think nothing can stop Calla once her curiosity is piqued.
“Nothing,” I say, sounding defensive.
“Denial.” She looks pointedly at Dahlia, who shakes her head at her sister-in-law. “There is something,” Calla says, self-assured.
I remain silent as they talk about their sons who are with their daddies.
I don’t have girlfriends. Sighing, I drink my coffee to ignore the bout of sadness. Having someone to talk to would be nice. Someone who understands.
I notice four other women entering the room, and the atmosphere instantly changes to wary. They are the wives of the Syndicate. The close-knit group moves to another table on the opposite side.
I realize I missed much of the conversation when Calla says, “See you later,” and she and Dahlia walk away.
After they depart, I head toward the Syndicate wives. They’re shielded from their men’s other business, but they host an annual party at their compound, meaning they know what their husbands do.
“How have you been?” Aurora asks, her smile always inviting.
I return her smile. “Not too bad, how are you?”
After some small talk, I excuse myself to get ready for today’s event.
Wearing a flowing blue dress with a side slit and two straps holding it together, I slip into my heels, style my hair in loose curls, and add a bit of makeup.
At the church, I watch Tristan and Viviana say their vows, their eyes fixed on each other, appearing as if their souls are old acquaintances.
While the other guests head toward the reception venue, I can’t help but wonder if I will be next. With the right partner by my side and without constantly worrying about a potential takedown, my chances of keeping my position will increase.
At these events, everyone has company, whether a partner or a friend. I, however, am alone, and it’s weighing me down.
After the accident, I stayed away from people because I was too busy dealing with myself—my lack of memory.
Then, because I had to function.
My amnesia is a secret—a subject I prefer to keep undisclosed—and with time, it became easier and safer not to let anyone in.
I see how Tristan, always the strategist, separated brACON from the Syndicate, placing them on opposite sides with New York’s elite sprinkled between them so it’s impossible for them to clash.
If I ever marry, I would prefer something small and private, nothing flashy.
I am seated next to the Syndicate’s table, with Vian and Rafe as my neighbors. It makes sense considering we’re the only unaccompanied ones.
Rafe talks to Alessandra and Hayden, their amiable expressions revealing they know each other well.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see him seated at the table, but he will come.
It’s only a matter of time. Butterflies go haywire in my belly, and I squirm in my seat.
Mouth going dry, I pluck a glass of champagne from a passing server and down it in one go to soothe my nerves just in time for Vian to sit down.
Great. I’ll need a few more drinks to tune out his presence, but like always, he ignores me altogether. It has bothered me from the very start. With time, it has turned into an itch, one I need to scratch even though I know it’s bad for me.
I clear my throat, and as if he senses what I want to do, he enters a long conversation with Rafe, who stares at the couple on the dance floor, frowning.
“Not a fan of marriage?” I ask Rafe just to piss off Vian, who sends me a glare I welcome with a smile.
Fuck him. No one ignores me.
Rafe shakes his head, a line digging between his brows. “I don’t know why anyone would swear his life to another person.”
“Maybe you haven’t found the right one?” I chirp.
Vian’s eyes bore into mine with a challenge, disconcerting me. “The one? Spoken from experience?”
“He can talk,” I mumble under my breath, strangling the napkin like I want to strangle him for causing this inner turmoil.
Rafe chuckles, and I lean over the table, ignoring Vian, just to let him feel how it is. “So, you don’t believe in the institution? In love? What exactly?”
“I don’t do love. I won’t marry or have children,” Rafe says vehemently, making me question the reason. His resolute tone brooks no argument, leaving me to believe his demons run deep.
I turn to Vian and tap my finger on the table, going for nonchalance. “What about you?”
He arches a brow. “Done ignoring me?”
“Look who is talking,” I bite out.
Rafe sweeps his gaze between us. “What’s the deal with you two?”
We stop talking altogether, staring ahead.
The silence stretching between us is so poignant, it maddens me. His scent and presence intoxicate me, playing with my senses until I am perfectly aware of his every inhale and exhale. This man possesses the uncanny ability to unsettle me.
“Want to dance?” Vian asks a few moments later, taking me by surprise.
I should say no. I want to say no. Instead, I nod, hoping to defuse the tension between us.
He stretches out his hand, and I stare at it for long seconds. It feels like a betrayal to my fiancé, but holding on drains me. There’s no hope, and without it, I am doomed.
Vian has a way of making me forget about everything, easing my first steps into moving on.
I place my hand in his, his larger one cradling mine. His eyes soften, and there’s a minimal shift in his face, but the warmth disappears as soon as it appears, making me question if I imagined the whole thing.
Usually, he’s surly and grumpy, or maybe he’s like that only with me.
On the dance floor, the silence hangs heavy, reminding me I am in his arms. It feels strangely intimate.
I place my hand on his chest, our bodies moving to the soulful music with an incredible familiarity, which only increases my confusion. The ring rolls on my finger, and he glances at the diamond catching the light, beaming between us.
“Nice ring,” he says, looking at it, enraptured. Physically, he is here; emotionally, he is somewhere I can’t reach him.
“Oh, it’s…”
“An engagement ring,” he says, touching it with reverence, electrifying me.
“I was engaged once,” I breathe out.
“What happened?” he asks quietly, as if the ghosts of my past could pop up and ruin the moment.
“He died.”
Our eyes lock, and everything else vanishes. It’s just him and me and whatever binds us that is beyond my understanding.
His Adam’s apple bobs, emotions thick in his deep voice. “You must have loved him.”
“I did. It’s been four years, and I can’t move on.”
Dancing with the man who affects me like no one else while clinging to the memory of another tears me apart. Yet it doesn’t feel like betrayal, as I initially thought. Whatever transpires between us has long been set in motion, making me feel like I am exactly where I should be.
“Have you been in love?” I whisper, something buried deep within me needing to know.
I can’t remember being so raw with anyone else, but he makes me feel safe, like he’ll guard all my secrets, cherish every confession. Treasure me.
I’ve lost my mind. There’s no other logical explanation.
He clears his throat, lost in thought. “I’ve been, yes.”
“What happened?” I ask as my palms lower on his chest. His heart thumps under my touch, and mine pounds in response.
“She forgot me.” Such sorrow laces his voice that it tugs at my heartstrings.
I feel my brows furrow. “Who would forget you?”
The corner of his mouth arches up in a small smile before he spins me as if to make me forget, but I can’t allow myself to forget anything more.
“What truly happened?”
“She died.”
I trip over my feet, but he’s there to catch me, and I can’t believe we share the loss of loved ones. Our eyes meet, and the past disappears, the future becomes irrelevant. Nothing matters beyond this moment when our souls share a conversation of their own.
“I’m thinking of marrying,” I say, licking my lips that are suddenly dry.
His hold on me tightens, his brows creasing, and I blurt out, “Like a mutually beneficial arrangement. I loved and lost once. I wish to avoid repeating that experience.”
“You don’t say.” His voice turns colder. “So, anyone would do?”