Chapter 24 Roran
Roran
Ican’t believe this is where I ended up. Not at my sister’s side, but walking into another damn crime family. Perfect!
I take the last step down the shadowed staircase and stop in front of a thick black door.
Torture room?
Wouldn’t surprise me.
My idiot uncle used to mock these “‘Italians’ underground chambers” like they were nothing compared to his.
Funny—those might’ve been what killed him in the end.
Ironic.
I clench my fists, trying to steady my breath. The heavy wedding dress is suffocating. The cold ceramic tiles bite into my bare feet.
I’m not dying in this ridiculous costume—not today. I won’t be marked as Ivan’s bride even at my death.
Maleciandro steps forward, unlocking this door too with a fingerprint scan like it’s nothing. Doesn’t even glance my way. Like he already knows there’s no point in watching me—I’m not escaping.
Not here.
Not now.
He radiates danger in every form, but it’s not like my father’s…
Maleciandro is calm. Solid. Built like he was trained to kill since his first breath, but he’s not flaunting it. There’s no swagger, no ‘fear me’ posture.
He doesn’t need to show off. He just is.
Which honestly? Makes it worse. Those are the ones I need to fear the most, but—
“Get in,” he commands, voice clipped.
I hadn’t realized I’d stopped moving, just standing there, staring at him. I bite the tip of my tongue and force myself forward.
The door clicks behind us, and lights flicker on overhead. I suck in a breath as the room comes into view.
It’s massive.
The ceiling stretches so high it makes me feel smaller than I already do standing next to him.
And I’m considered tall. That’s saying something.
Gym equipment lines the walls, a long sparring mat stretches across the floor.
Solas once tried to open a sparring rink in one of my father’s smaller pubs. Said he wanted to make something “fresh” underground.
Fresh. Right.
Like underground street fights didn’t exist long before he was even born.
That bastard used to hit me and my sister harder than anyone else. He loved violence—craved it. Dirtying his hands was probably his favorite pastime.
I still remember that stretched-out smile he wore whenever he did it.
Lucky for us, he was rarely around.
I steal a glance at Maleciandro, tilting my head just enough to study the weird scars that trace up his neck.
But he clears his throat, sharp, and my eyes snap back to his.
Gemstone silver. Unreadable.
He’s a monster shaped like some sort of Greek god.
A waste of divine architecture, honestly.
I barely looked twice when we met at that bar, too busy with Diana—and thank god for that.
If I had really seen him back then?
I might’ve dreamed about him… not knowing he’s the kind of nightmare you don’t wake up from.
“Done staring?” His tone is low, mocking.
I shake my head quickly and drop my gaze to the ridiculous puff of tulle wrapped around my legs.
My fingers curl into the fabric, grounding myself. Not the first time I’ve been dragged somewhere I didn’t want to be.
Won’t be the last.
And if what his aunt whispered is true—then maybe, just maybe, we’re on the same side. For now, at least.
“What are you planning to do with me?” I ask, forcing the words out under the heat of his stare.
If he expects me to read his mind with his needs, he’s more unhinged than I thought.
I flinch when he grabs my arm.
Firm, not brutal—but still, too sudden to make me startle.
He pulls me toward the wall and pushes me down onto a bench.
“If you tell me what I need to know, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of,” he says, eyes drifting lower.
To my chest.
Great. Another horny shit.
This dress makes it look like I’ve got two balloons taped to my ribs, and I do not have that much going on underneath.
“And what is it you need to know?” I ask, shifting on the bench, suddenly hyper-aware of his gaze.
I’m used to men staring. The Konfetki was full of that.
But this feels different. Less sleazy. More… calculated.
“Let’s start simple,” he says, stretching his arms like we’re about to have a casual park chat.
Then sits beside me.
Beside me. Like, I’m not even a threat.
Like I couldn’t be carrying a blade.
Like I couldn’t claw my way out of here if I wanted.
He’s either dangerously confident now—or stupid.
Then again… maybe he’s just like my father after all. Another smug bastard playing god in a shiny suit. Or jeans and a shirt.
He’s definitely not what I imagined the Italians to look like. I expected crisp black suits, slick hair, that businessman-who-sold-his-soul kind of vibe.
His uncle—Pedro, was it?—fit that picture. I think he’s one of the Spallo brothers.
But this family? There’s something off.
Their eyes hold too much. Their presence… hums under my skin with something I can’t name.
And Maleciandro…
My body reacts to him like he’s safety. Like he’s the exception.
But I know better.
Maybe it’s because he looks like sin sculpted into flesh. A hot dream, dressed in danger. And I know very well how those end.
I’m still waiting for his question—anything—but all he does is stare over my head again, like he’s tracking something I can’t see.
Then his gaze drops, slow and deliberate, from my chest to my arm. He frowns, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand.
I lean in, trying to catch a better look at the scar on his forehead now that he’s closer, but then—his eyes snap to mine.
My heart stumbles at the sudden shift.
“Are you sick?”
The question punches the breath out of me. I jerk back a little, my spine pressing harder into the wall.
How the hell does he know?
No one knows. No one’s supposed to.
But he does.
“How do you know that?” I manage to gasp, straightening.
My mind races. Is he involved with the medicine somehow? No—my father’s the only one with access. Isn’t he?
“What’s wrong with you?” he counters, ignoring my question altogether. His face tilts closer to mine, and his voice drops lower—measured, unflinching.
“W-what do you mean?” I stammer. His scent hits me then, sharp and earthy, almost electric. I blink too fast. My pulse stutters.
“Don’t play dumb.”
His tone is all cool steel now. “You seem smarter than that.”
I suck in a breath through my nose, searching his expression for a way out—but his stare doesn’t waver.
“I don’t really know what’s wrong with me,” I finally admit, my voice quieter now.
His aunt said I reminded her of herself. Said I could trust them. That they knew what monsters looked like because they’d lived with them too.
“I just know that if I don’t take the medicine my father gives me every two weeks, things start to… slip. I lose grip on reality. I get weaker. I hear whispers…” I glance away; his gaze is too much. I don’t even know why I’m actually telling him this.
But then I realize how it might sound. “It’s not mental—It’s not just in my head—I swear. Last time I pushed past the two-week mark, I couldn’t even stand up. I couldn’t feel my arms. My legs went numb. And the pain—”
“If that’s mental, I’m a damn fairy,” he mutters, leaning in again. Close enough that his breath grazes my shoulder. Warm. Controlled. Too close.
I hold my breath. So he believes me?
“Why did you run?”
He straightens, his tone shifting back to that cold, unreadable calm.
Did… the scar on his forehead just flicker?
I blink hard. Once. Twice. Nothing.
This might be my only chance to win him over. I need to make it count.
“My father locked me up the moment I tried to steal my medicine, said I was getting too reckless. Then he locked up my sister to punish me.” My voice cracks, but I keep going. “He kept me there until the wedding day. The second they pulled me out to dress me up and parade me down the aisle, I ran.”
He doesn’t react. Not even a blink.
“I need to find her. Before he uses her to punish me again—or worse, kill her.”
The last part comes out more like a plea, but I don’t care. He brought me here—kidnapped me—because he needs something. We can use each other.
I don’t give a damn if he kills me afterward, as long as I get Diana out.
“Your sister... the one you came for at that bar?” he asks.
I nod quickly.
He helped her before. I remember him saying he had a sister, too.
Please, God—let him go soft again.
“You said your father gives you medicine every two weeks?” he asks next, changing the subject. His lip twitches slightly, like a thought just clicked into place.
“What kind of medicine?” he adds before I can even answer the first one, one brow raised.
“Something only he can get. I’ve never seen it anywhere else. No doctor’s ever found a cure for my illness, but only my father had this medicine that works. If it helps—there’s something I do know, though.”
I lean forward, locking eyes with him, hoping he’s after who I think he’s after. “I’ll tell you... if you agree to help me find my sister.”
He watches me. He’s no fool—and I know better than to play games with a man like him.
I just hope he sees I’m serious.
He smirks. “Do share. And I’ll think about your sister.”
A deep breath.
“Ivan Petrov is after that medicine, too. That’s the marriage deal—”
“Ehi, cugì!”
The sudden voice from behind makes me flinch, cutting my words short.
Maleciandro tilts his head toward it, lips flattening—but there’s something sharper in his eyes now. Like he just formed a new theory, or a plan.
“It’s been over a week since I last saw you,” the man calls out, voice light and teasing. “And now you’re bringing in a bride? Here I thought you’d never settle.”
He sounds young. Playful. Not the least bit scared of Maleciandro.
Cugì?
I wish I knew Italian!
“Alessio,” Maleciandro huffs, clearly losing the patience he was holding on to. “What are you doing down here?”
I finally glance back—and freeze.
Same otherworldly golden gem eyes as Pedro, he looks a lot like him. But this one has bright red hair.
His aunt’s son, then. Has to be.
Though... she looks way too young to have a son his age.
Could cugì mean cousin?
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” Alessio pouts dramatically.
Then I spot it: a crescent moon scar carved into his left cheek. Just like the one on Maleciandro’s forehead.
Oh no.
This weirdo’s heading my way.
I turn back to Maleciandro for any sort of help—but Alessio grabs my chin, forcing my eyes on him.
“Alessio,” Maleciandro growls.
I hold my breath. Thank God that growl wasn’t meant for me.
That tone? That’s not a warning. That’s a countdown to ruin.
“Go upstairs. I’ll deal with you later.” His voice is sharp, hot enough to burn. Nothing like the ice he uses on me.
They’re definitely related.
“I just wanted to say hi to our new friend here,” Alessio grins wider, digging his fingers into my cheeks.
I finally let the ice back into my stare and glare at him through my crushed lips.
“I’m. Not. Your. Friend.”
The bastard laughs.
Then leans in close, lips nearly brushing my ear.
“The enemy of my enemy,” he whispers, “is my friend.”
Did he listen in on us?