Chapter 27
ADRIANA
The moment the words leave my mouth, I freeze. I didn’t mean to say it—not like that, not to his face. But it’s too late to pull it back. The shock in my chest is mirrored on his face; for a split second, Dante just stares at me as if I’ve slapped him.
He takes a step back, the heat between us instantly cut by cold air. “What?” he says, his voice sharp, incredulous. “You think I killed them?”
Shame burns up my neck, but I can’t look away. I’m shaking, humiliated by what I blurted out, humiliated by how my body still aches for him even now. I want to hide, to run, to take it all back, but the words hang in the air, impossible to unsay.
I bite my lip, the sting of tears hot in my eyes.
I can still feel where his hands touched me, my skin throbbing with the memory, the ache of want tangled up with fear and regret.
I can’t believe I let things go this far, can’t believe I’m even standing here, asking the man I’m supposed to trust if he’s a murderer.
He shakes his head slowly, anger and disbelief mixing in his eyes. “Adriana,” he says, softer now, like he’s talking to someone he barely recognizes. “Is that really what you think of me?”
My pulse thunders as I face him. “You know what’s going on. Remik—your runner, partner, whatever you call him—he’s involved. Either you’re ignoring it or…” I can’t finish, the words catching on the lump in my throat.
“Or what?” His voice is ice. He takes a single step closer, jaw tight. “You think I’m the one dumping those girls in the river?”
“Aren’t you?” I fire back. “You move in the same circles. You know the same people. And every time I get close to the truth, I find your name tied to theirs.”
For a moment the room feels too small, too silent. He stares at me, muscles coiled, eyes dark and unreadable.
“Listen to me,” he says, each word clipped and steady. “I don’t kill women. I protect what’s mine. And right now, what’s mine is standing in front of me accusing me of murder without a shred of proof.”
He exhales, the anger beneath his control shifting to something else—something almost like hurt. “If you really think I could do that, you never knew me at all.”
“Prove I’m wrong,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can overthink them. “Help me find the real killer.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. He just studies me, eyes narrowed, as if he’s trying to decide whether I’m setting a trap, or if I genuinely mean it. I feel small under that gaze—exposed, scared, but determined.
He shakes his head, a dark sort of frustration crossing his face. “You want my help, but you don’t trust me,” he says quietly. “You’re still looking for reasons to blame me, Adriana. That’s a hard way to work together.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know who to trust. But I know I can’t do this alone.”
He lets out a long breath, the tension between us still electric. He’s silent so long I wonder if he’ll just walk away. But then he nods, slow and deliberate.
“All right,” he says, his voice low. “I’ll help you. But if we do this, you tell me everything. No more secrets. You follow my lead, and if I tell you something is dangerous, you listen.” His gaze softens just a fraction, tired and raw. “I can’t protect you if you’re fighting me at every step.”
I nod, my heart thumping painfully. “Deal.”
He looks at me, jaw tight. “Where do you want to start?”
I straighten my shoulders, trying to hide the way my hands are still shaking. “Isn’t it obvious?” My voice barely wavers. I force myself to meet his eyes. “Portello,” I say. “It has to be there. That’s where it started for Anya, for Samie, for all the others.”
He just watches me for a moment, searching my face for any sign of hesitation. I feel my nerves jangling but I don’t back down.
He nods, his expression unreadable. “Be ready in the evening,” he says, voice clipped. “We’re going.”
He leaves the kitchen without another word. I stand there, forcing myself to breathe. My hands are shaking. I tell myself it’s because of the fight, the plan, the danger of Portello—but I know it’s more than that.
I still haven’t been brave enough to buy a pregnancy test. I stop in the middle of getting ready to go out, pull out my phone and type a quick message to Bella: Can you grab a couple of tests for me? Please don’t ask, just do it. I’ll explain later.
Almost immediately, Bella calls. I stare at the phone vibrating in my hand, but I don’t answer. I’m not ready to hear the worry in her voice, not ready to put words to the fear in my chest.
I set the phone face down on the counter and make myself focus on the next step. Portello. The case. That’s all I can handle for now.
I try not to think about anything but the plan as I shower and get ready, but my hands shake every time I pull open a drawer.
I pick out a black dress that’s safe but still looks like it belongs in a club, even if I hate how it clings to my body.
All the clothes in this closet were chosen for me, not by me.
I step out and see Dante waiting by the door, arms crossed, gaze lingering over me with an intensity I try to ignore. He arches a brow. “Are you really going dressed in that?”
I shoot him a sarcastic smile, grabbing my purse. “Won’t you be there to protect me, dear husband?”
I walk past him, but he reaches out and catches my hand, stopping me in my tracks. The air tightens between us, too many things unsaid, the heat rising despite everything we’ve argued about.
He doesn’t let go, his voice low. “You think that’s funny?”
I meet his eyes, chin tilted up. “Well, all my clothes were picked by your family. Not exactly my style, but what do you expect?”
He growls under his breath, jaw tight. “Then burn them all. Tomorrow, I’m taking you shopping. You’re getting clothes that are yours.”
“Promise?” I murmur, the edge of a challenge in my voice.
His eyes darken. “Promise. Now let’s go.”
He lets go of my hand, but not before his thumb brushes slow over my wrist, making it impossible to ignore him.
Oleg pulls up to the curb and unlocks the doors. Dante opens the back door for me, insisting I slide in first. The ride to Portello is tense, city lights flashing past the windows.
Dante sits beside me, arms folded, jaw set. “You really think Remik is behind this?” he says, keeping his voice low enough that Oleg can’t hear.
I glance at him, annoyed. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve known him longer than you. Remik’s an asshole, but he’s loyal.”
I scoff, turning toward the window. “Yeah, because everyone you trust has such a spotless record. I’m sure he’s a real saint.”
He lets out a humorless laugh, leaning closer. “You have a habit of accusing everyone I know.”
I turn in my seat, meeting his stare. “I have a habit of following the facts. Your friend Remik always seems to be nearby when things go sideways. Do you know he was—”
Dante cuts me off, his tone dry. “Yeah, I know. He was Serrano’s partner too. The same Serrano you took down.”
I turn, stunned. “How did you—?”
He gives me a look, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I saw you at the club that night. You stood out.”
My heart stutters. “You remember me?”
“Of course,” he says, something dangerous and soft in his voice. “And so does Remik.”
I swallow hard, trying to read his expression. “Is there anything you don’t know about me?”
He glances over, eyes locked on mine for a heartbeat. “I’m still figuring out how far you’ll go for a story. And how much you’re willing to risk.”
I look away, heat rising in my cheeks, the truth of it settling between us as Portello’s lights come into view.
Oleg pulls up in front of Portello, and even from the car, the bass-heavy thrum of music is unmistakable.
The neon sign glows electric blue above the door, reflecting off polished black glass.
A line of guests snakes along the velvet rope, some laughing, some already drunk, all of them dressed to be noticed.
Spotlights sweep the sidewalk, painting everyone in quick flashes of pink and gold.
Inside, the air is thick with perfume and sweat, music pulsing through the floor and up into my bones.
Light glances off glass and chrome, barbacks weaving through the crowd with trays of glowing drinks.
Everyone is beautiful, dressed to be seen, pressed close together in a tangle of skin and silk and cologne.
We barely make it past the velvet rope when Maksim spots us from the balcony above. His expression flickers between confusion and something else which is quickly replaced by an easy smile as he heads toward us.
Maksim’s attention is split between Dante and me, but he’s quick to hide his surprise under that smooth club-owner charm. “I hope you’re here to enjoy yourselves,” he says. “It’s been a while since we had both Petrov and Volkov royalty in one room.”
I force a polite smile, nerves buzzing. “Actually, Maksim, I was hoping you could help me with something.”
He arches a brow. “For you, Adriana, anything. What do you need?”
“I want to see the security footage from last month. You keep everything, right?”
He glances at Dante, then back at me, his smile slipping for half a second.
“That’s a very specific request. But…I’m afraid there’s a problem.
We had a system crash a few days ago. Most of the footage from the past couple months is gone—corrupted beyond repair.
Some files survived, but they’re patchy.
You’re welcome to look, but I doubt you’ll find what you’re after. ”
I study him, trying to read what he isn’t saying, but his expression is pure innocence. “Show me what you do have,” I say. “Please.”
He gestures for us to follow. “Of course. Right this way.”
As we move toward the back offices, I catch Dante’s eye. His jaw is set, watching Maksim closely. I know he feels the same thing I do; this isn’t just bad luck. Someone wanted those tapes gone.