Chapter 7
Liev
The gates glide open before the car even fully stops. The wrought-iron curls on silent hinges as though the house has been waiting for us. It would be eerie if we weren’t a thousand yards from the ocean crashing delicately against a gorgeous, white-sand shore.
I ease my hand off the steering wheel and guide the sedan up the long, curved drive, studying the mansion ahead with a slow, measured irritation that settles between my shoulders like a weight.
The house rises out of the shoreline like a monument made of pale stone and towering columns.
The balconies face the water as if the ocean exists purely for their enjoyment.
Tall windows flash in the sunlight, and every visible surface gleams with the kind of polish that costs more than most people make in a year.
It looks exactly like Hinto. Too loud and too hungry to be admired. And there are little splashes of color that look ridiculous against the otherwise elegant opulence.
Nothing about it feels secure or practical. It’s a performance, the architectural equivalent of a gold chain worn outside a shirt.
I glance at Ryder beside me and hope she can’t read my mind. The last thing I want is for her to realize just how ostentatious I think her family is.
She looks at the mansion without expression, though I see the subtle tightening in her jaw.
She grew up here, which explains how she is able to keep her face blank, like she’s refusing to let the place claim her.
It’s the same look my daughter had when she stepped off Kazimir’s jet years ago.
At eighteen and fresh after the loss of her mother, she wanted nothing to do with me or the Bratva.
It makes my heart ache to see that echoed on my wife’s face.
“You okay?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
She nods once. But the way her fingers curl against her thigh tells me it isn’t.
I park near the entrance where a fountain throws water into the air in an unnecessary display, and we step out together. The salt from the ocean mixes with expensive floral landscaping that smells unnatural. Fake. Everything is manicured, shaped, controlled.
What is Hinto working so hard to hide beneath this facade? From the intelligence Kazimir gathered in the first months of our tentative truce with the cartel leader, Hinto Moreno hasn’t actually lived in Miami for at least five years. He just stops by now and then.
The front doors open before we reach them, and a woman glides down the steps as though she’s been waiting for a camera crew to appear. The staff who opened the doors invisible inside.
Carmela Moreno is exactly what I expect; gorgeous, her age ambiguous, surface-level.
She’s beautiful in the way Ryder is beautiful.
The same sharp cheekbones and dark eyes, but where Ryder is contained, watchful, and feline, Carmela is warm and bright; overdoing it.
Gold bracelets slide down her wrists when she lifts her hands, rings catching the light. A silk dress clings to her curves.
My feet halt without my brain agreeing to it, floored by her presentation.
It’s as if she’s stepping out to see the paparazzi, a public figure—like a famous singer or actress.
But she’s only Hinto’s wife; I’ve read her dossier, and Carmela Moreno has lived a life of effortless luxury with no ambition other than existing. She almost never leaves this mansion.
It must be a lonely life. But already my hackles are up; something about her sours my stomach.
She smiles wide and sweeps toward me with open arms.
“Liev,” she says, accent soft and musical. “Welcome to Miami.”
Her hug comes too easily and familiarly.
Her perfume is heavy and sweet. I keep my hands politely on her back and step away quickly.
Ryder is waiting just behind and to the side, her fingers rubbing nervously into her palms. I step to the side, waiting for Ryder to receive the same greeting, but Carmela’s hug is perfunctory.
It’s as if Ryder comes home every weekend, and hasn’t been away for a few years now.
If it were me seeing Alyona after almost a year apart, I would’ve ignored her companion completely.
“Mamá,” Ryder murmurs, her cheeks coloring as her mother kisses them. She accepts the overdramatic affection without moving, as if afraid that if she reacts, it will disappear.
“I’ve missed you, mi amor,” Carmela gushes. “You look thin. Are you eating?”
“I’m fine,” Ryder says, pulling back.
Inside, the house is somehow worse. Marble floors and chandeliers, artwork that screams “price tag” instead of taste.
It feels like walking through Hinto’s ego. Carmela doesn’t seem to recognize my judgement of the ridiculous surroundings; she’s pointing out paintings, statues. Who the hell needs statues?
Ryder’s phone buzzes, and she checks the screen, her posture shifting immediately into business mode.
“The clubs,” she mutters to me. “My dad asked me to check numbers.”
The fact that he’s still sending her on errands, even now, twists something sharp under my ribs. He discarded her so easily in Savannah, but has been ordering her around via text as soon as we set foot on solid ground here.
“Go,” I say. “I’ll survive five minutes without you.”
She shoots me a suspicious look, then disappears down the hall.
The moment she’s out of sight, Carmela steps closer.
Too close.
Her smile changes, overdrawn lips pursing. “So,” she says lightly, fingers brushing my sleeve, “my daughter married a very powerful man.”
I don’t move. “That seems to be the rumor.”
Her hand lingers on my arm longer than necessary, nails tracing the fabric.
“You’re much more handsome up close,” she murmurs. “Hinto said you were serious, but he didn’t mention you were this…”
Her gaze drags down my chest.
“…interesting.”
Disgust hits fast and cold. Not because she’s unattractive, but because of what it means.
Hinto traded his daughter like property, and her own mother is flirting with the man she just married.
Walls slam into place inside me.
I step back, creating space. “You should be careful what you imply, senora.”
She laughs softly. “Relax. It’s only conversation. I’m guessing this isn’t exactly a matrimonio por amor, is it?”
I don’t speak Spanish, but I’ve picked up enough here and there to know what she’s pointing out: Ryder and I didn’t marry for love. The smirk on her face doesn’t make this feel like a conversation. It feels like disrespect.
Like she’s testing how easily I’d betray Ryder.
The answer is never.
Carmela shifts closer, her hand wrapping around my bicep. Movement flickers at the end of the hall.
Ryder.
She’s standing there, phone still in her hand, eyes locked on us. Her expression shutters instantly.
She doesn’t ask or accuse. She just turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, steps sharp and fast.
Something ugly coils in my chest.
Not guilt.
Anger.
At Carmela and Hinto and the entire rotten family for teaching her to take this kind of treatment quietly.
Carmela rolls her eyes, stepping away and crossing her arms, pushing her breasts up. “My daughter. Always so dramatic, that one. Ryder!” She strides casually down the hallway, moving her long hair over a shoulder as she goes. “Querida! I was just welcoming your husband—”
I watch them go, glued to the spot. Not sure how to proceed.
This whole arrangement—the marriage, the business proposals, it was all for the sake of this territory. The one I set foot in last night, fresh off the jet.
You need to focus on setting up your territory; I remind myself, feeling a vein throb in my forehead. I should turn away and go to the guest house, answer Kazimir’s texts, and start reaching out to contacts.
Instead, I want to rampage through this mansion and find my wife.
Make it clear to her that whatever this is, this life she’s come back to, it’s not hers. Not ours.
I won’t let her be treated like this.
She’s a queen, and they’ll all learn or suffer at my hands.
The only thing I care about in this ridiculous palace is the woman stalking away from me like I’ve done something unforgivable.
And the thought that she might believe I’d ever touch someone else makes my blood burn.
* * *
Thankfully, the guesthouse doesn’t look like it belongs to a cartel kingpin with a God complex.
The main house felt like a showroom, but this place sits tucked behind a line of palms and low hedges.
It’s quiet and almost modest by comparison.
The exterior is stucco and glass, warm-toned, with wide windows and a shaded patio that faces the water.
It feels lived-in instead of displayed. It’s the kind of place meant for breathing rather than impressing.
At least they know how to give guest’s privacy.
Inside, the furniture is comfortable and practical. A deep sectional couch. Worn leather chairs. Bookshelves that actually hold books instead of decorative nonsense. The kitchen looks like someone has cooked in it at least once.
It’s the first space on this property that doesn’t make my teeth grind.
It should relax me.
Ryder slips inside ahead of me without a word, disappearing down the hallway like smoke, and something territorial rises sharp and hot in my chest. I don’t like being avoided. I don’t like the idea that she thinks she can retreat into herself instead of facing me.
Especially not after what she saw or what she thinks she saw.
I shut the door harder than necessary and stalk through the guesthouse, checking rooms with quick glances. Bedroom. Empty. Bathroom. Empty. Office nook—
There.
She stands near the window with her back to me, arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring out at the water like she might go through the glass and swim away.
“You’re avoiding me,” I say.
She doesn’t turn. “I’m unpacking.”
“Strange thing to do in an office…with no luggage.”
Her shoulders tense.
I step closer, slow and deliberate, the way I would approach something feral. “We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?” she snaps, still not looking at me.