Chapter 2
The bass of the electronic music wasn’t heard; it was felt. It vibrated through my ribs, an aggressive, unwanted cardiac massage, trying to pound life into a body that felt like it was dying inside.
I lifted my glass of Dom Pérignon. The crystal was cold, but my hand was sweating so much I was afraid I’d let it slip and shatter on the sticky floor of The Velvet Room.
“Sol! Aren’t you gonna drink?” Gigi shouted, leaning over the VIP table.
Her breath smelled like cheap vodka and ambition.
She pointed at my full glass. “That bottle cost more than my rent!”
I forced a smile. That “party girl” smile I’d perfected at sixteen, the same one I used to disarm paparazzi and drive my father crazy. “I’m savoring it, Gigi. It’s the difference between having class and just being thirsty.”
Gigi rolled her eyes and went back to dancing with a guy wearing a fake watch and pointy-toed shoes. He had “parasite” written all over his forehead, but Gigi didn’t care. Nobody here cared. They were drinking on my unlimited tab, orbiting the D’Angelo heiress like moths around a neon sign.
I took a sip. The champagne went down rough, acidic. I pulled my phone from my sequined clutch for the tenth time in the last minute. The screen bathed my face in blue light.
No calls. No messages.
It was almost midnight. If Daddy were getting better, someone would have called. If he’d gotten worse...
I swallowed hard, feeling a knot of nausea form in the pit of my stomach.
The doctor said tonight would be critical.
And where was I? Holding his hand? Reading to him?
No. I was here, surrounded by strangers screaming stupid song lyrics, wearing a dress that barely covered my thighs, pretending my only worry was the next song.
Because if I stayed in that silent mansion, listening to the beep of the monitors, I’d start screaming and never stop. The noise here was the only thing that drowned out the noise in my head.
“Another round!” someone shouted.
The air grew thin. The strobe lights—red, blue, white, red—began to spin faster, transforming the dance floor into a slow-motion horror movie. Distorted faces. Mouths open in silent laughter.
I need to get out of here.
I shoved the full glass toward the center of the table, knocking over an ice bucket in the process. Nobody noticed. “Bathroom,” I muttered to no one in particular, and threw myself into the crowd.
Crossing the dance floor was like swimming through molasses. Sweaty bodies pressed against mine. Anonymous hands tried to grab my waist, pull my hair. “Hey, gorgeous, wanna dance?” “Get out of my way,” I snarled, shoving a broad chest covered in polyester.
I reached the women’s bathroom and shouldered the door open. The music became muffled, fading to a low hum. The place was empty, except for a girl puking in one of the stalls. The smell of cheap disinfectant tried, and failed, to mask something worse.
I walked to the sink and braced both hands on the fake marble. I looked in the mirror.
The girl staring back at me looked like a broken doll. The red lipstick, applied with surgical precision hours before, now looked like blood on a wound. My dark eyes, inherited from my mother, were glassy, ringed with eyeliner that was starting to smudge at the corners.
“You’re pathetic, Solaia,” I whispered to the reflection. My voice trembled.
I turned on the faucet, letting ice-cold water run over my wrists. I tried to steady my breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Daddy hated when I cried. He said tears were manipulation. “Be strong, fiores, the world doesn’t forgive weakness.”
But he was dying. The man who was the law, the fear, and the sun of my universe was disappearing. And what would be left? I knew the answer. Cassian Varro.
His image flooded my mind. The Consigliere. The robot in an Italian suit. He looked at me like I was a stain on the Persian rug he couldn’t scrub out. He controlled my money, my schedule, and soon he’d control my entire life if the will was what I feared.
My phone vibrated on the marble counter. The sound against the stone was like a gunshot.
I jumped, heart pounding in my throat. I grabbed it with slippery hands.
It wasn’t the hospital. It was a security notification from the house app. Main Gate Open. Authorized Vehicle: Varro.
The air rushed out of my lungs. Cassian never left the mansion when the Don was in crisis. He was the guard dog. If he’d left... if he’d come here...
The bathroom door burst open. It wasn’t a drunk girl who walked in. It was a man in a black suit, with a clear earpiece and a scar through his eyebrow. Franco. One of Cassian’s elite guards.
He looked at me, impassive. “Miss D'Angelo.” “Franco?” My voice came out shrill. “What are you doing here? Where's my security?” “Dismissed.” He held the door open. “The Consigliere is waiting.”
Not “Daddy wants to talk to you.” Not “We have news.” The Consigliere is waiting.
The blood drained from my face. I grabbed my purse, my trembling fingers barely managing to close the zipper. “Where is he?” “At the back exit.”
I walked past Franco, my legs shaking in my five-inch heels. He escorted me out of the bathroom, but we didn't head back to the dance floor. He guided me through a narrow service corridor that reeked of garbage and cigarette smoke.
When the metal back door swung open, Chicago's cold hit me like a slap. Rain poured down in sheets. The icy water soaked my silk dress in seconds, plastering the fabric to my skin.
A black limousine sat parked in the alley, engine running, purring like a sleeping beast. The headlights cut through the rain, illuminating overflowing garbage cans. And leaning against the rear door—him.
Cassian Varro.
He had no umbrella. Rain ran down his black hair, plastering the strands to his forehead, sliding over his wire-rimmed glasses. His suit seemed to absorb the light around it, making him a black hole in the middle of the storm. He stood motionless. Hands in his pockets. Watching me.
He looked like Death itself, waiting patiently to collect its toll.
I stopped ten feet from him. Rain mixed with the cold sweat on my forehead. “Cassian!” I shouted to be heard over the water hammering the gutters. “What happened?”
He didn't shout back. He never shouted. He simply opened the car door. An invitation that was really an order. “Get in.”
“No!” Panic gave me stupid courage. I stepped back. “I'm not getting in that car until you tell me. Is he okay? Was it a crisis?”
Cassian took two steps toward me. Too fast, too fluid. Before I could retreat, he was in my space. He smelled of rain, ozone, and something metallic and dangerous.
He grabbed my arm. His fingers were warm through the wet fabric of my dress—a firm grip that didn't hurt but made it clear I had no choice. He lowered his face to mine. Behind the wet lenses, his gray eyes were unreadable. Walls of ice.
“You're drunk, Solaia,” he said. His voice was low, cutting. “You reek of cheap alcohol and desperation. Get in the car before I have to throw you in.”
“I hate you,” I spat, tears finally mixing with the rain. “The feeling is mutual,” he retorted, emotionless. “Now, get in.”
He gave me a light push. I stumbled into the warm, dry leather of the limousine. Cassian climbed in right after, closing the door and shutting out the world.
The silence inside the car was absolute. The glass was soundproof, bulletproof, lifeproof. The driver pulled away without a word.
I tried to curl up in the corner farthest from Cassian.
I was shaking violently now, the cold and terror making my teeth chatter.
Cassian removed his wet jacket. With methodical movements, he shook it out and laid it on the empty seat across from him.
Then he took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a dry handkerchief from his pants pocket.
He seemed so calm. So indifferent. As if he were returning from a tedious business meeting, not dragging the boss's daughter out of a nightclub in the middle of the night.
I looked at his hands. Steady. Precise. Hands that could sign a million-dollar check or snap a neck with equal ease.
“Talk to me!” My voice broke the silence, shrill and pathetic. “Why did you come? Why didn't they call me?”
He put his glasses back on. The click of the temples was the only sound. He stared straight ahead at the black partition separating us from the driver. He didn't look at me. Not for a second.
“Speed up,” he said into the intercom.
“Cassian…” The word came out as a broken whisper. I grabbed the sleeve of his white shirt, staining the immaculate fabric with my wet, makeup-smeared fingers. “Daddy… Is he gone?”
I wanted him to lie. I wanted him to say “He's stabilized” or “We'll see.” I would have accepted any lie. I would have begged for one.
Cassian looked at my hand on his sleeve. His upper lip curled slightly—an expression of barely contained disgust. He didn't pull my hand away, but he offered no comfort. No “I'm sorry.” No reassuring touch.
He raised his eyes to meet mine. There was nothing there. Just a gray abyss. A closed door. He didn't say yes. He didn't need to. His silence was a scream. His silence was a corpse.
I let go of his arm as if it had burned me and recoiled against the door, hugging my knees. A moan escaped my throat—an animal sound, ugly. I buried my face in my hands so I wouldn't have to see the city passing outside. The city that now looked like a vast cemetery of neon lights.
Daddy was dead. And I was locked in a soundproof metal box with the monster who'd inherited the leash.