Chapter 10
10
Claudius
With Cecely finally gone, I can get some work done. Or at least, I should be able to. But instead of focusing on the reports in front of me, my thoughts drift to her.
To the way she moved as she walked toward the bedroom.
There was something in it. Something subtle.
Not fear. Not quite.
But awareness.
Like she expected to be followed. Like some part of her was bracing for it. Wanting it…
And that did something to me.
My pulse had kicked up, sharp and sudden, at the sight of her disappearing down the narrow aisle. A dark part of me—one I rarely acknowledge—had whispered, Go after her. Just to see. Just to see what she’d do.
Would she run? Would she turn, her defiant eyes flashing? Would she try to fight?
I didn’t find out.
Of course, I didn’t.
I let her go.
I press my lips into a firm line and force my attention back to my work, my fingers tightening around the pen in my hand.
She’s nothing more than a job.
So why the hell do I already know the way her pulse flickers at the base of her throat when she’s agitated?
And why do I want to see it again?
Cursing under my breath, I throw the pen onto the tray table with a sharp clatter and pull out my phone. Maybe focusing on anything else will help.
A few text messages wait for me.
Santos. Wants me to check in when I land. I won’t.
Henderson. Sending me some article he thinks might help track down the man pretending to be my brother. It doesn’t.
And then there’s Blanc.
His message is short, to the point. He only wants to know if his mistress is safe. She is.
But something about the message—about him, really—rubs me the wrong way.
Because that’s all he asks. Not a single damn question about his illegitimate daughter whose life is now tangled up in this mess just because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.
My jaw tightens as I stare at the screen.
I shouldn’t care. It’s not my problem.
But for some reason, the fact that he doesn’t ask about her… that he doesn’t even acknowledge her existence…annoys the hell out of me.
With a sharp exhale, I shut off the screen and shove my phone back into my pocket. I need to get my head on straight. Because Cecely isn’t my concern. No matter how much my mind keeps telling me otherwise.
I turn my attention back to my laptop, forcing myself to focus.
The chat for the trafficking auction scrolls in front of me, a dark and twisted marketplace that operates in the shadows of the world. Familiar names pop up, exchanging coded messages, negotiating prices like they’re discussing cars instead of human lives. Cecely’s name still hasn’t been directly mentioned, but I’m sure the host is biding his time.
I exhale slowly, resisting the urge to put my fist through the screen. This is the kind of thing that certain people would want to know about. Like the Devil’s Regents Motorcycle Club.
The boys in that particular club have made it their mission to hunt down traffickers, which is exactly how we crossed paths years ago. And by crossed paths, I mean I was damn near killed the first time we met. I thought their President, Saint, was going to rip me apart with his bare hands. Hell, I wouldn’t have blamed him. Men like him don’t take kindly to people who deal in the same circles as the scum they’re erasing.
But instead of killing me, we came to an arrangement.
I slip him information that’s useful, precise, and the kind that leads his club straight to the monsters they want to put in the ground. And in return? He lets me live. Not exactly friendship. Not even trust. But mutual understanding.
And I’m smart enough to know where I stand. I can take on one man, even a deadly one. But an entire motorcycle club? One with chapters spread across the world, men who would burn entire cities just to make a point? I’m not stupid.
I type a quick message, attaching the relevant details. A gift for Saint. I even tell him he can charge his rooms to my tab.
My gaze flicks from the laptop toward the locked door where Cecely sleeps. She’s a complication wrapped in too many unknowns, and I don’t like unknowns. I need to get to the bottom of who she met—the man pretending to be Gabriel. Someone out there has gone to extremes to take over my twin’s life, embedding himself so well that even she believed it.
And that?
That pisses me off.
Gabriel was no saint, but he sure as hell didn’t leave unfinished business like this. If someone’s walking around with his face, using his name, there’s only one explanation. They want something. And until I figure out what, Cecely is the closest link I have.
I crack my neck, pushing aside the tension crawling up my spine, and open a new email.
There’s one person who might be able to track this imposter down. Someone who owes me and knows better than to leave a debt unpaid.
I type out a simple message, direct and to the point, attaching the few details I have. Find him. Fast.
Seconds later, a reply pops up.
Already working on it. My men will have information for you soon.
Good. Because the longer this goes unanswered, the more dangerous it becomes. And I have a feeling this isn’t just about Gabriel. This is about something bigger.
And Cecely?
She’s right in the middle of it.
We finally land in Rome around three in the morning Dallas time, which means it’s ten in the morning local time. The time difference weighs on me, but I ignore it. Sleep can wait.
Cecely emerges from the bedroom looking refreshed, like she just had the best rest of her life while I spent the flight thinking, planning, and sending messages I shouldn’t have had to send.
She glances out the window, and her eyebrows lift.
“We’re in Italy?”
“Yes.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, stretching slightly. “You’ve been before?”
She nods, a small smile curving her lips. “Once, with Harvey. We only went to Venice. I wanted to come to Rome so bad.”
There’s something wistful in her voice, something unguarded. Rare.
“Well,” I say, “don’t get your hopes up too much. This is just a stop in our trip.”
Her smile fades slightly. “Where are we going?”
I meet her gaze, watching her reaction as I say, “Isola Ombrafiore.”
She blinks. “That sounds made up. I’ve never heard of it before.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” I agree smoothly. “It’s my private island.”
Her lips part slightly, processing. “You own an entire ass island?”
“Three, actually.”
She stares at me, mouth opening, then closing like she’s trying to find words. Finally, she exhales a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Of course, you do.”
I don’t respond. There’s no need.
Because in a few hours, she’ll see for herself. And something tells me she won’t be smiling then.
Isola Ombrafiore is anything but paradise. It’s hell, really. A place built for secrecy, for control, for keeping things—and people—exactly where I want them. And Cecely has no idea what awaits her.
I push the thought aside and stand, straightening my cuffs. “Come,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “The helicopter is waiting for us.”
She hesitates. Just for a second.
“We’re getting in a helicopter?”
Her voice pitches slightly, and I catch the flicker of unease in her expression before she quickly schools it away.
I smirk, tilting my head. There it is.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, feigning curiosity. “You afraid of helicopters, too?”
“No,” she says too quickly. Then, clearing her throat, she adds, “I just wasn’t expecting to be tossed into the air again so soon.”
I chuckle. “Get used to the unexpected, Cecely.”
I lead the way off the jet, stepping onto the sun-warmed tarmac. The Italian heat is already pressing down, the scent of jet fuel thick in the air.
A small blacked-out vehicle waits for us, engine idling, the driver giving me a respectful nod as we slide inside. The ride across the tarmac is short, the hum of engines and distant radio chatter filling the silence.
Then we arrive.
The helicopter sits on its own pad, sleek and intimidating in matte black. It’s not a civilian model, but military-grade, built for speed, silence, and resilience. Its sharp angles and reinforced plating scream efficiency over comfort, and the blades are already spinning, sending gusts of hot air swirling around us.
Cecely slows her pace as we approach, her gaze flicking up at the machine like she’s reassessing her life choices.
I don’t give her time to hesitate.
I pull open the door and motion for her to climb in. “Move.”
She scowls but obeys, ducking inside and strapping in.
I follow, sliding into the pilot’s seat and flipping switches with practiced ease. The control panel lights up, the display screens casting a cold, green glow against the dark interior.
“You’re flying?” Cecely asks, her voice edged with something between skepticism and concern.
I smirk, gripping the cyclic stick. “Relax. I’ve done this before.”
Her fingers tighten on the harness across her chest as the rotors kick up speed, the deep thump-thump-thump vibrating through the cabin.
I push forward on the controls, lifting us off the ground in a smooth, controlled ascent. The world below shrinks, the airstrip turning into nothing more than a patch of gray against the sprawling Italian countryside.
Cecely sucks in a breath as we tilt forward, accelerating.
She grips her seat, muttering something under her breath that I don’t quite catch. I glance at her briefly, the corner of my mouth twitching. This is the easy part. The hard part comes when we land on Isola Ombrafiore.
Cecely finally begins to relax, her tension easing bit by bit as the landscape unfolds beneath us. I hear the subtle change in her breathing, the quiet sounds of awe escaping her lips as we pass over historic towns, rolling vineyards, and roads that snake through the Italian countryside.
She leans slightly toward the window, watching intently, completely absorbed.
Then, the ocean comes into sight—a vast, glittering expanse of deep blue stretching toward the horizon.
Her head snaps my way. Instantly alert.
“We’re going over the water?”
I smirk, keeping my eyes on the controls. “What part of island did you not understand?”
Her cheeks flush, a faint pink creeping up her neck.
“Guess I didn’t take in the ‘endless ocean’ part.”
I snort. “It’s not endless. Though it is deep.”
She shoots me a glare. “Your reassuring skills suck.”
My grip on the cyclic remains steady as I glance at her, amusement flickering across my face.
“What? You afraid of drowning now?”
“I’m afraid of crashing into the ocean,” she corrects, crossing her arms. “You know, the whole falling from the sky and sinking into the abyss thing?”
I chuckle. “If we go down, it’ll be quick.”
Her jaw drops. “That is not better!”
I smirk, tilting the chopper slightly, just enough to make her tense again.
“Relax,” I say smoothly. “You’re safe.”
She huffs, sinking back into her seat, clearly unconvinced.
But in the glass's reflection, I catch something else. Curiosity, maybe. Because no matter how much she glares at me, no matter how much she complains… she wants to know where we’re going.
“What does Isola Ombrafiore mean?” Cecely asks, her voice laced with curiosity.
“Rusty on your Italian?”
She rolls her eyes. “I never learned.”
“Pity.” I turn my attention back to the horizon. “It means Shadow-flower Island.”
Her brows furrow. “What does that even mean?”
“The Ombrafiore is the island’s native flower. The locals call it ‘ Lacrima della Luna’ or Moon’s Tear.”
She tilts her head slightly, intrigued despite herself. “Moon’s Tear?”
“It only grows at night, in the shadows of the volcano.”
Or used to, a long, long time ago.
Her eyes widen, any pretense of disinterest vanishing in an instant.
“There’s a volcano?”
I suppress a chuckle. “Again, island.”
“You conveniently left out the part where it’s a volcanic island.”
“You didn’t ask.”
She leans forward slightly, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to concern. “Is it an active volcano?”
I let the silence stretch, just long enough to see her shoulders tense.
Then, finally, I say, “Not currently.”
Her breath hitches. “That is not comforting.”
I grin, keeping my hands steady on the controls. “Then don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
“This just keeps getting better.”
I chuckle, tilting the chopper slightly as we approach our destination. She has no idea just how right she is.
I point ahead. “There’s the island.”
Cecely leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the view.
Isola Ombrafiore emerges from the sea like a myth brought to life—a place few even know exists. It’s been called the hidden jewel of the Tyrrhenian Sea, but that’s only by the rare handful of people who have ever seen it.
Secluded. Untouched. Wild in a way that masks the dangers beneath.
Dark cliffs rise dramatically from the turquoise sea, the jagged rocks shaped by time and tides. Above them, Monte Silente, the dormant volcano, looms, shrouded in thick evergreen forests. Waterfalls cascade down its slopes, disappearing into shadowed caves that snake beneath the land like secrets waiting to be uncovered.
But the real secrets lie even deeper.
Beneath the island, a network of underground lava tubes winds through the earth, forming crystal caverns that shimmer in eerie shades of blue and violet, glowing like something out of a dream—or a nightmare.
The coastline gets closer, revealing a striking contrast—black sand beaches, jagged basalt formations, and hidden coves carved by time and erosion, only accessible by small boats. At night, the water in certain areas glows, thanks to bioluminescent plankton, turning the shoreline into something out of a fantasy.
Cecely exhales, shaking her head. “Does anyone even live here? It looks deserted.”
I bite back a smile. I had the same reaction when Gabriel first told me he wanted to buy the island.
“I live here,” I say smoothly, keeping my tone light. “And now? So do you.”
Her head whips toward me. “Funny.”
Her expression shifts, her brows pulling together in genuine concern.
“Is there a house?” Her voice dips slightly, as if she’s only just considering something far worse. Her eyes widen suddenly. “Please tell me this isn’t some kind of camping thing.”
I laugh, deep and low. “There’s a house.”
She exhales dramatically. “Good. Because I draw the line at surviving in the wild.”
I don’t tell her that survival is exactly the issue because she’ll find out soon enough.
“Tighten your seatbelt.”
Cecely’s head snaps toward me, suspicion flashing in her eyes. I flash her a megawatt smile. It’s the kind that’s meant to be reassuring, but does the exact opposite.
“It’s going to be a bumpy landing.”
Her hands immediately go to the straps, yanking them tighter across her chest. “You’re messing with me, right?”
I don’t answer. I just keep my hands steady on the controls, my expression unreadable as I guide the helicopter lower, the rotors slicing through the humid island air.
Below us, the rugged terrain of Isola Ombrafiore spreads out. There’s no neat little runway waiting for us, no smooth stretch of tarmac. Just a clearing carved into the forest, barely big enough for the chopper.
The wind kicks up violently as we descend, the treetops swaying, sending a spray of loose leaves and dust spiraling into the air. The closer we get, the rougher the ride, the helicopter shuddering slightly as turbulence grips us.
Cecely grips her seat, knuckles white. “This is so not the time for theatrics.”
I chuckle, adjusting our trajectory at the last second. “Who said anything about theatrics?”
She glares at me, jaw tight, but she doesn’t scream. I’ll give her that.
The skids hit the ground with a jarring thud, the helicopter bouncing once before settling. The blades whine as I shut everything down, and the moment the rumbling fades, the silence is almost deafening.
Cecely exhales hard. “Jesus. You weren’t kidding.”
I grin as I unbuckle. “Told you.”
She doesn’t move, just stares out the window at the thick jungle surrounding us.
“So…” she finally says, still catching her breath. “This is it?”
I step out, stretching. The heavy, humid air wraps around me instantly, thick with the scent of salt, earth, and rain.
“Oh no,” I glance back at her, my smirk returning. “This is just the beginning.”