The Villain (War of Hearts #1)

Chapter 1

ALLEGRA

“Just keep a smile on that pretty face of yours and it’ll be over before you know it.”

My brother pats my cheek, but I think what he’d really like to do is slap it if he could.

If two hundred of our relatives, including members of the inner circle and business associates, weren’t clustered in our living room, drinks in hand, watching us, some openly, some from the corners of their eyes.

Watching and waiting for a crack to show, a weakness to exploit.

“It hasn’t even been six months since his death, Michael. It’s not right.”

The family trusted our father to lead them. I’m not sure my brother realizes they don’t exactly look at him with the same respect.

Michael turns to nod a greeting to one of the guests, his lips moving into what on the outside looks like a warm smile as he sips his whiskey.

“The contract’s been delayed long enough. And besides, right won’t keep us fed, will it? Won’t keep this roof over our heads. It certainly won’t put us back at the top of the food chain.”

That last part he says under his breath. He scans the crowd before turning to me once more and I see his true face. The one beneath the mask.

“Besides, it’s my birthday, sis. Consider this my birthday gift, you actually doing what you’re told for once.

I’m head of this family now and I’m working my ass off to fix the mess our father left behind.

Hell, he should have married you off the day you turned eighteen, but you always did have him wrapped around your little finger, didn’t you? ”

“He wouldn’t make me do something I didn’t want to do.”

“Bullshit,” he says with a snort. “Don’t make a saint of him. He wasn’t one, Allegra. You of all people should know that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grits his teeth and narrows his eyes, and I get the feeling it’s taking all he has to hold back.

“You really need to ask?” Michael taunts.

He wraps his hand around mine, weaving our fingers together and giving a little squeeze.

To all those watching, I’m sure it looks like a comforting gesture, big brother taking care of his younger sister.

It’s not, though, and I wince when his fingernail presses into the nub where the pinkie finger of my left hand used to be.

“Speaking of little fingers, tuck this hand into your pocket. We don’t need to parade that around, do we? ”

When he releases my hand, I push it into my pocket.

With a jerk of his chin, he gestures to two men standing across the room, William and Richard Moore. Governor Richard Moore. Father and son. I wonder if they feel out of place considering the rest of the guest list.

Over the years, Dad had many meetings with the Moores. Richard and I were officially introduced on my eighteenth birthday with the understanding that after my college graduation, we’d be married and our families would be aligned.

“I’m not sure why you’re whining anyway. He’s not completely hideous and his wallet is thick,” Michael says.

I clench my jaw to bite back my words as he finishes his drink and sets the glass aside before adjusting the butterfly mask covering the top half of my face. He mutters his disappointment at my lack of costume. It is Halloween, after all.

“And don’t think I won’t punish you for this,” he says.

One look in his hard eyes and I have no doubt he will.

Someone calls his name and after giving me one more pointed look, he finally moves on.

Taking a flute of champagne from one of the serving staff hired with money we don’t have, I ignore my fiancé to be and sip from my glass.

My gaze moves around the room. I recognize many of the faces behind the masks, family members and business associates of my father’s.

Malek Lombardi, my father’s consigliere, now my brother’s, is among them.

He catches my eye over the shoulder of the woman he’s talking to.

His mask is pushed to the top of his head.

He’s barely bothered with a costume himself.

He gives a quick wink that makes my skin crawl.

It’s to let me know he’s watched the whole interaction.

He’s always watching. Even when Dad was alive, Malek was always on the sidelines, never missing a thing.

The only difference is he’s less on the sidelines now.

I turn my back to him and swallow the remainder of my champagne, the bubbles tickling my throat.

In my periphery I see Richard Moore begin to approach.

I guess he’s finished waiting. I need to get out of here.

I set my empty glass on a side table and head in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd and down the hallway that will lead to my father’s study.

The corridor is dimly lit. This part of the house is off limits, just like the upper floors, and everyone knows it.

Sconces along the paneled walls light the way and I swear that, even now, months after his death, the faint scent of cigars and cologne linger here.

It’s not quite comfort I feel, though. It’s something else.

A safety in boundaries. Lines that can’t be crossed.

Maybe I’m imagining the familiar scents.

Probably I am. But I breathe in deeply, a contradictory mix of sadness and nausea filling me from my center outwards.

Allowing myself one moment there, I hurry before Michael realizes I’ve left the party and comes to drag me back.

I open the door, finding the usual lights on, one on Dad’s desk and the other the lamp over his favorite armchair.

They’re dim and he always kept them on. Since his death, Michael and I have both continued to do so.

I slip inside and close the door, leaning against it and looking at the empty space behind the desk.

My brother’s mess is on top. My father would never have tolerated such sloppiness when he was alive.

That or the half-drunk glass of whiskey that’s also Michael’s.

Michael is himself now that there is no reckoning to be had.

I think it’s a sort of postmortem rebellion.

Muttering a curse, I walk over to pick it up before it leaves a ring when movement at the far end of the room catches my eye.

Gasping, I whirl around, my hand flying to my heart, panicked when I see the form there. A man half hidden in shadow turned toward me.

He doesn’t move, not even when he knows I’ve seen him. He doesn’t even try to hide. Instead, he stands still and watches me. He’s probably been watching me since I walked in here.

I can’t see his face, but I see the sheer size of him. He has one hand in his pocket and in the other he’s holding a tumbler of whiskey. He’s wearing a suit. Black on black on black. Everyone out there is in costume. This man didn’t bother.

Our family photos hang in a collage of matching frames on the wall behind him. I remember putting them up with Dad. Was this man, this stranger, studying them? It feels like a violation.

“What—” I croak, my voice not quite making it. I clear my throat. “What are you doing in here?”

He steps forward so the lamp by the chair casts its light over his face.

My breath catches in my throat when I see his eyes.

They’re a cobalt blue so pure they’re almost electric.

Against his deep olive skin and dark hair, they’re almost out of place, and for one idiotic moment all I can think is how beautiful they are. How beautiful he is.

He raises one eyebrow, a corner of his mouth lifting like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s used to it. He cocks his head and very openly studies me.

I’m suddenly aware of the complete silence in the room. Dad soundproofed it years ago. The only noise is that of blood pounding against my ears as my heart thuds at the surprise of finding someone in here.

Finding him in here.

A word takes form in my mind.

Danger.

No. It doesn’t take form. It’s a feeling. And it’s not in my mind. It’s a sensation that begins in my belly and moves outward to spread down every limb.

I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him before. But I do know he shouldn’t be in here. I know he’s no friend. Although, is anyone in that other room a friend?

The man’s eyes move over me slowly, purposefully, taking in every inch of me.

My ‘costume’ was last minute. Black palazzo pants and a black, off-the-shoulder top with feathers along the bust line, a pair of too-small wings I found among old toys from when we were little, some leftover Halloween costume, strapped to my arms. Ballet slippers. The mask.

His cobalt eyes return to mine. “Moth?” he asks, his voice hard as gravel.

“Excuse me?”

He gestures to my clothes. “Your costume?”

I look down, feeling exposed. Seen. More so than I was in that room with two-hundred sets of eyes watching.

“Butterfly,” I hear myself say.

“Hm.” That utterance breaks the spell. I guess that to mean my costume is a flop.

I raise my eyebrows, although he can’t see that under my mask. I take one step toward him, but something tells me to stop. Tells me not to proceed. “No one’s supposed to be in here,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the pounding of my heart.

“No?”

“You should know that. Everyone knows that. This is my father’s study.”

“Your father’s dead,” he says flatly the words landing hard, a punch to my gut that leaves me breathless and stunned.

He turns back to the wall of photographs, peers closer at the one in the center.

It’s a photo from two summers ago. We’re all in it, Michael, Dad and I along with Malek and his kids, Amal and Daniel.

We’re all wearing white and we’re all smiling but I remember that day.

How forced it all felt except for Daniel, who is laughing outright, but he was three at the time.

The man returns his intent gaze to me. “Allegra.”

How does he know my name? “You’re not supposed to be in here,” I repeat with more force.