Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Selena
The line at The Black Rose Café snaked almost to the door.
I shifted my weight, clutching my bag against my hip, and counted heads.
Eight people ahead of me. The espresso machine hissed and screamed behind the counter while the baristas moved in a frantic dance, calling out orders over the noise.
Students crammed into every available seat, laptops open, textbooks spread across tables, the air thick with the smell of dark roast and warm pastries.
An hour. I had an hour before I needed to be back for Julianne’s class—my class today, technically. She’d handed it off to me while she and Costin finalized plans for her birthday party. The vampire, witch, Unseelie, and wolf elite were losing their minds over the guest list.
And what a guest list it was.
The Vampire King and Queen. Trystan Hunter, the Wolf King.
Keir Rankin, the Unseelie mafia king. Prince Dante and his girlfriend, Katona.
Angelo Santi and his queen, Serenity—the vampire mafia sending representatives from New Orleans as a show of the fragile truce.
Dignitaries from covens I’d only read about in textbooks.
Anybody who was anybody in the supernatural world would be there, draped in silk and jewels, toasting to a century of love.
Everybody except Rocco.
The thought crept in before I could stop it. I stared at the menu board without seeing it.
He wouldn’t be there. Couldn’t be there. Last I’d checked, he was still working at Bernie’s Burgers—a grease-stained hole in the wall on the edge of the French Quarter. Before that, it was a gas station. Before that, a warehouse loading dock.
I knew because I kept tabs on him.
I had a contact in New Orleans. Rose Dragan.
She was a vampire and a witch—a rare combination that made her one of the most powerful people I knew.
We’d been roommates at Red Rose Academy, gone from friends to enemies and back to friends again.
It was complicated. Everything involving Rocco was complicated.
But Rose understood. She didn’t judge me for needing to know he was okay.
Every few weeks, I’d get a text: Still at Bernie’s. Looks like shit. Alive.
That last part was the only one that mattered.
The line shuffled forward. I moved with it, my chest tight.
Pathetic. That’s what I was. The mate he’d rejected, still checking up on him like some lovesick stalker who couldn’t let go. He’d called me a traitor. A disgrace. Told me I wasn’t worthy of being his mate.
And here I was, two years later, making sure he was okay.
I really needed to get a grip.
“Next!” The barista’s voice cut through my thoughts.
I stepped up to the counter and ordered my usual. Vanilla latte, extra shot. The small comforts of routine.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I moved to the pickup area. I pulled it out, expecting a message from Julienne about the seating chart or the catering or one of a hundred other details she’d been obsessing over.
It wasn’t from Julienne.
New development. He left Bernie’s. Got picked up in a limo. Dimitri was driving.
I stared at the screen, my heart suddenly pounding.
Dimitri. Rose’s brother-in-law. Which meant Valentin’s brother. Which meant—
Shitshitshitshit.
Dimitri worked for Angelo Santi. The vampire mafia king. The most dangerous man in New Orleans.
What the hell did Angelo want with Rocco?
“Hello, Selena.”
I nearly dropped my phone.
My head snapped up, and the world tilted sideways.
Rocco Palazzo stood in front of me.
Not the Rocco I’d been tracking for two years—the hollow-eyed, grease-stained ghost working minimum wage jobs in the French Quarter.
This Rocco wore a charcoal suit that fit him like it had been tailored yesterday.
His long dark hair was pulled back into a man bun, showing off the sharp lines of his jaw.
He looked... good. Healthy. Like the prince he used to be.
And his eyes—those dark eyes I’d tried so hard to forget—watched me with a flicker of amusement.
My skin flushed. My breath caught. Every nerve ending in my body lit up like I'd been struck by lightning. Two years of burying these feelings, and one look from him brought them all crashing back.
No. Absolutely not.
“Rocco.” His name came out strangled, caught somewhere between my chest and my throat like it didn’t want to leave. I cleared my throat, forced my voice steady, even though my pulse had kicked into a sprint. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged, casual as anything, like he hadn’t just appeared out of thin air in the last place I’d ever expected to see him. Hands in his pockets. Head tilted slightly. That effortless confidence that used to make my knees weak.
“Looking for you.”
Butterflies crashed against my ribs. I crushed that feeling down with both hands and buried it somewhere deep.
He gave me a smile—the one that used to melt my heart. The one I’d replayed a thousand times in the dark, tracing every detail of it from memory like some lovesick fool. The one I’d dreamed about for years before I learned how little I meant to him.
It wasn’t going to work this time.
“I need a date for Julienne’s Birthday Party.”
I stared at him. Waited for the punchline. When it didn’t come, I cocked my eyebrow. “You want to go with me?”
His smile faded. The charm drained out of his face like someone had pulled a plug, and for a moment the mask slipped—I saw exhaustion underneath.
Shame. The kind of shame that lived in a man’s bones and ate at him from the inside out.
“After what I did with my mom, I’m not on the top of everyone’s dance list anymore. ”
There it was. The truth hiding beneath the swagger. Prince Rocco, who once had every woman in the kingdom falling at his feet, was standing in front of me because no one else would say yes.
I remembered. God, I remembered. I’d been there that day—had watched his fist connect with his mother’s face, watched her crumple, watched him keep hitting her while something dark and wrong looked through his eyes. The sounds she’d made. The blood on the marble floor.
He’d been possessed. It wasn’t him. Not really.
His mother had forgiven him. But Rocco hadn’t forgiven himself. He’d walked away from everything—his title, his family, his life—and disappeared into the human world like he was punishing himself for something he couldn’t control.
And still—after everything—he wouldn't talk to me. Wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't acknowledge what was between us. But now he wanted me at his side for the event of the year?
I should have felt satisfaction. Some petty, justified part of me wanted to. He’d ignored me for years. Treated me like I was invisible while I’d burned for him in silence. And now here he was, because he’d run out of options.
But satisfaction wasn’t what I felt. What I felt, looking at the shadows carved beneath his eyes and the way his shoulders curled inward like he was bracing for rejection, was something worse.
I felt sorry for him. And I hated myself for it.
“So I’m your last resort.” I gave him a smirk, trying to hide the hurt building inside me. “That’s your pitch.”
He winced. Actually winced, like the words had landed somewhere soft. “No. That’s not—” He dragged a hand through his hair, the casual confidence crumbling completely now. “I could have asked anyone. I’m asking you.”
“Because everyone else said no.”
“Because—” He stopped. His jaw worked. He looked away, and when he looked back, those dark eyes were raw in a way I’d never seen before. Stripped bare. No prince. No charm. Just a man standing on the edge of something honest.
“Because you’re the only one I actually wanted to go with.” His voice dropped, rough and low. “I know I don’t deserve that. I know I haven’t given you a single reason to say yes. But I’m asking anyway.”
The silence stretched between us. My heart thundered so loud I was sure he could hear it.
“You called me a disgrace, Rocco.” My voice was quiet. Steady. Sharper than a blade. “You said I wasn’t worthy of being your mate. Two years of nothing—and now this?”
He flinched. Not a wince this time—a full-body flinch, like I’d driven a stake into his chest.
“I know.” His throat bobbed. “I had my reasons. I can’t explain them. Not yet.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both.”
I waited for more. An excuse. A justification. Something I could grab onto and rip apart. But he just stood there, letting my anger wash over him without trying to deflect any of it.
"You know what you did to me that day." It slipped out quieter than I wanted. More honest than I intended.
His eyes closed. When he opened them, they were glassy. "Yes. I know exactly what I did."
But he didn't explain. Didn't defend himself. Just took it like a man who believed he deserved every word.
Damn it. And damn that stubborn, traitorous part of me that still wanted him.
“You must be really desperate,” I said, keeping my voice flat, “to want to go with me.” I tilted my head. I’d already planned on going alone—hadn’t even considered finding a date. And now here he was, the last person I’d ever expected, asking me. “Do you even have an invitation?”
He glanced around the café, checking if anyone was listening. I was sure every girl in the place had her eyes on him—the fallen prince in his perfectly tailored suit. “Yes.”
Except I’d helped Julienne with those invitations. I’d written out half of them myself.
His name hadn’t been on the list.
“I made out the invitations, Rocco.”
His eyes darkened and he shrugged, but the casual gesture didn’t reach his face. “I’m representing someone. He’s unable to attend and asked me to go in his place.”
The limo. Dimitri driving. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up.
Oh god. No.
I swallowed hard. “Who?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it was barely a murmur. “Angelo Santi.”
The name landed like a bomb.
“Are you working for the Santi family now?”
He shook his head. “No. But I’m doing this as a favor.”
“That’s dangerous, Rocco.” I searched his face, looking for some sign of what he’d gotten himself into. “You don’t want to owe Angelo any favors.”
“I’m not.” A muscle twitched beneath his eye—barely, just for a second. “He owes me.”
I held his gaze, trying to read him the way I used to. Back when I thought I knew him. His expression was steady, his voice even. Either he was telling the truth, or he’d become a much better liar than I remembered.
I should say no.
Every rational part of my brain screamed at me to say no.
But this was the first time Rocco Palazzo had ever asked me for anything. The first time he’d stood in front of me without disgust or dread in his eyes.
And god help me—I wanted to know why.
“One night,” I said. My voice shook, and I hated it. “That’s all you’re getting.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. He nodded once.
“And Rocco? If you shut me out again—if you go cold on me, if you so much as look at me like I’m nothing—we’re done. Permanently.”
“I understand.”
“Seven o’clock,” I said. “Don’t be late. Do you even know where I live?”
“No.” Something shifted in his eyes—a glint of amusement, maybe, or something darker. “But I know someone who does.”
A chill ran down my spine. Rose. He had to mean Rose. At least I hoped it was Rose. I didn’t want to think that Angelo Santi knew where I lived and was keeping tabs on me.
But the way he said it—like he had secrets I couldn’t begin to guess at—made me wonder if I’d just made a terrible mistake.
He turned to go, and I grabbed his arm before I could think better of it. The contact sent heat jolting through me—my desire screaming to life at the touch.
Rocco went still. His jaw tightened.
“Rocco.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “What are you really doing here? And don’t tell me it’s just a favor for Angelo.”
He looked down at my hand on his arm, then back up at my face. For a moment—just a moment—I saw something crack in that careful mask. Something raw. Something desperate.
Then it was gone.
“Seven o’clock,” he said quietly. “Wear something nice.”
He pulled free of my grip and walked out of the café without looking back.
I stood there, heart pounding, coffee forgotten, watching him disappear into the crowd.
What the hell had I just agreed to?