Chapter 23
"We are here, boss." I raised my head, staring at the Versace estate. The air smelled different.
Wealth. Roses. A touch of rot beneath the gold.
I walked through the grand doors, the inside exceeding my expectations. What was I doing here again?
Right. I was here to play politics.
To sit in velvet chairs and trade sharp words with the woman who raised Arabella—my bad— Versace, like a weapon dressed in silk.
I raised my head to the clicking of heels as an older version of Versace walked into the drawing room. Her red dress sparkled, spine straight like she thought she could intimidate me.
She couldn't.
"You didn't have to come yourself, Cassian," she said, her voice smooth, practiced. "Your house has advisors for a reason."
She called me by my middle name, reminding me of how long we’ve known each other.
"I am the reason," I replied simply.
She didn't like that.
Good.
We spoke for twenty minutes about Dynasty business power shifts, outer house threats, and a planned vote of no confidence against the Don of the El-Serhan family. Nothing I didn't already know.
"And as the nephew and holding a good position in the House of Kashani, House of Moretti is also in support of House of Versace."
She nodded, taking my words in. But I wasn't here for the war outside.
Halfway through our meeting, her phone rang. She didn't even bother hiding the irritation on her face.
"This will take a while, Cassian," she said, standing. "Make yourself comfortable. You're welcome to look around."
No warning. No restrictions. She shouldn't have given me the freedom. Because the second she was gone, I started walking.
The halls were quieter than they should've been.
Too quiet. Like the estate was holding its breath.
I wandered past old portraits, oil paintings of dead Versace men who thought ruling the underworld was their birthright. I wasn't impressed. I'd buried better.
No guards were anywhere to be seen, maybe hiding in the shadows or having their morning training as it was quite early in the morning.
Versace's shadow wasn't near either.
I turned a corner near the main stairs when I heard her.
Not her, not Arabella. Someone else.
Her voice drifted from downstairs, clipped and commanding.
"Tell the chef, noon. She's not getting up before then. Just tea and a simple meal. No juice unless it's fresh. And don't knock."
"Yes, Miss Mayami."
The maid murmured something, and they both disappeared around the bend.
That must be her assistant.
I stared at the stairs.
She was here.
Asleep.
Bruised from the night I re-entered her world.
I didn't think. Didn't ask for permission. Just climbed.
Step by step, quiet as a ghost.
The top floor was even quieter. I passed closed doors, all gilded and expensive. But, I didn't care.
I stared at the portrait’s intricate designs and everything else.
Then I saw it.
Her door. Gold and Black.
Barely cracked open.
Something in me went still.
I pushed it open slowly, like I was trespassing into a memory.
There she was.
Versace—Arabella, curled on her side, half-covered in the sheets, her face streaked with dried tears. The kind of sleep you only fall into after breaking.
She looked so small.
Not like the girl who ran kingdoms with her eyes.
Not like the girl who once dared me to play pool with her, all because she wanted me to stop being interested.
She was tired. Wrecked. Human.
I stepped inside without thinking.One more step. Then another.
I didn't mean to lean over.
Didn't mean to get close.
Didn't mean to whisper, "Ara..."
Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. A blur of motion. Steel flashed.
Cold metal pressed to my neck.
"Don't you ever call me that again and don't ever fucking touch me," she rasped.
Her eyes were bloodshot. Her breath was shaky. But her grip? Steady.
The blade pressed against the pulse in my throat.
I didn't move.
I didn't expect her to wake up—hell I didn’t think I'd come upstairs.
"You always did have a flair for dramatic wakeups," I murmured.
"You always did have a habit of sneaking into rooms that aren't yours," she shot back.
There she was.
That bite. That fire.
Still alive beneath the wreckage.
"Didn't mean to wake you," I said smoothly, eyes locked on hers.
"Bullshit," she whispered.
The knife didn't move.
"You came to finish what you started, didn't you?" Her voice cracked, not with fear. But with rage, grief.
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because I had no idea what she meant. What she was talking about.
She stared at me like I was death incarnate.
Then, slowly, she lowered the blade. But her voice? Still venom.
"Next time, knock. Or better yet, don't come back."
She turned, pulling the duvet over her head hitting my jaw in the process. I let her do her thing. Didn't say anything.
Because what could I say?
Back downstairs, I found myself in the sitting room again.
But I didn't sit.
I wandered, letting the silence press into my skull. Letting her words roam in my head.
That was when I saw it.
A photo.
Small. Framed in silver. Probably dusted daily by someone who wouldn't want to be turned to dust by Mrs Versace.
Three girls.
Versace. Asvika. And—
Sanaaya Khalighi.
Laughing. Arms wrapped around each other. Matching bracelets. A frozen moment from before.
They looked like kids who didn’t know the word, mafia.
Before betrayal. Before war. Before I put a bullet in someone I didn't know she loved.
"Sanaa," I whispered.
"You knew her." I said to myself in realization.
Everything clicked.
The look in her eyes. The breakdown. The silence.
She didn't just know Sanaa.
She loved her.
And I—
"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice said softly.
I turned.
Mayami.
Of course.
"She wasn't only a friend," she continued, stepping into the room. "She was her sister in every way that mattered."
I didn't speak.
"Maybe her death was a blessing too, because the miss returned home a month later."
I didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
But something cracked.
Mayami gave me a long look, then a light smile, before she walked away, heels silent on marble.
Leaving me alone.
In front of a photo, I'd never seen. But had already destroyed.