Chapter Fourteen
Raya
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, WE’RE pulling up to a single-story building tucked behind high walls on the outskirts of civilization, nothing but brown desert all around.
Cool, almond-scented air and the soft strains of classical music greets us upon entering. The interior is like a cross between a high-end restaurant and a corporate boardroom.
A uniformed server escorts us to a private room off the left. A windowless space with tufted walls—likely soundproof—and a large, round table elegantly set for a formal meal.
Like the gentleman he is not, Stefano pulls out a chair for me to sit, before taking the seat beside mine.
“Are you early for your meeting, or is everyone else late?” I ask as a server fills our water glasses.
“If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re early, you’re on time,” he reiterates. “Arriving early gives you the advantage. You’re already settled in and relaxed. You get to observe, assess others as they arrive. You notice things others don’t.”
“But you made an unplanned detour,” I remind him.
“Even so, I’m still early.” He takes a sip of water. “Always allow extra time for the unexpected. Learned that from my nonna.”
Nonna was smart. “So, what’s the meeting about? It can’t be anything too important if I’m here.”
“Just a monthly brush-up on city operations.”
Another server enters just then, carrying a silver tray with a pen and notepad. He stops beside me and offers them like I’d asked for them.
Bewildered, I accept the items and glance over at Stefano. “What’s this for?”
“You’re here to be quiet and draft the meeting minutes.”
Of course I am. Which means I won’t be eating. “You couldn’t have told me this earlier so I could at least eat something first?”
“You’re filling in for Gio. He never eats during lunch meetings.”
“Well, I’m not Gio, I’m Raya. And Raya doesn’t function well when she skips lunch.”
He just blinks at me.
And I resist the very real, very strong urge to pick up the butter knife and bury it in his smug, unbothered eye. Let’s see how he looks then.
As irritation prickles beneath my skin, I decide maybe it’s better this way. If he pushes me all the way to despising him, it’ll be easier. Easier to walk away. Easier to bury the foolish, ill-placed infatuation that’s the only thing tethering me here in the first place.
“How are you even so sure I know how to take meeting minutes?”
“Lucky guess.”
“I don’t know if everyone’s just been too afraid to tell you this,” I say, leveling a look at him, “but you’re an asshole.”
Angling toward me, he props an elbow on the table, the other arm curling around the back of my chair like he owns it…and me. His lips tip into the faintest smile, eyes glinting with intrigue.
“Oh, but you are not afraid, are you, little liar? I wonder…why is that? Where does your confidence come from? What are you so sure about?”
Shit. This man. This son of a demon.
Every encounter with him feels like toeing a line drawn in gasoline, and he’s the one holding the match. And now I’m certain he aggravates me on purpose. To crack me. To drag me out of myself. To see me unravel. To prove himself right about me.
The clever brute.
Hard as it is right now, I clamp my mouth shut. Physically bite down on the words I want to spit at him.
He stares me down like I’m prey, but I hold steady. I refuse to be baited into a reaction I’ll regret. Or worse, a truth I can’t take back.
A part of me is always exposed when he’s near. The veil slips whether I want it to or not. But he won’t be getting an admission from me. Not today. He’ll have to dig deeper. Cut sharper. Come harder.
A throat clears, slicing through the thick tension, and our standoff breaks.
We both glance toward the doorway.
A long-legged redhead stands inside the frame, dressed to the nines like the Princess of Wales, gloved hands and all, as if we aren’t in the desert.
Lucy Rainford.
The city’s well-loved mayor. Who I’m convinced was voted in purely because she’s a head-turning bombshell knockout who looks like she belongs on a runway instead of behind a government desk.
Clearly, democracy is horny.
Suddenly I’m feeling weirdly grateful for that unplanned detour to Wendy’s boutique, or I’d be slinking under the table right now in the face of the mayor’s glamorous, gloved-up flawlessness.
“Am I interrupting something?” she asks, her silver eyes darting between us, sharp with curiosity.
“Good afternoon, Lucy.” Stefano rises smoothly, and goes to greet her with a kiss on the cheek. “You’re breathtakingly stunning. As always.”
She blushes under his praise, cheeks dusted pink. Her eyes softening on him with familiarity and desire. But there’s something else in that melted gaze, flickering just beneath the surface…
He gestures toward the table for her to take a seat, and a small, pathetic, unhinged part of me gloats that he doesn’t pull out her chair. Victory tastes petty, but also kind of delicious.
Once she’s seated, her attention shifts back to me, curious and assessing. “Who’s the new face? Where’s Mr. Bellanti?”
“He’s ill,” Stefano replies, returning to his seat. “Miss Michel is filling in for him today.”
Lucy gives me a slow once-over, her perfectly-arched brow lifting. “Given the nature of what we discuss here, am I to assume she’s under your complete control?”
Stefano just looks at her.
No expression. Just that quiet, unsettling stare.
After several tense beats, Lucy shifts in her seat and nods. “Right. Stupid question.”
Under that continued silence, she starts folding her napkin. Unfolds it. Refolds it again. Trying to keep her hands busy, maybe to hide the subtle tremble.
Interesting…
She clears her throat. “Who knew the mighty Castellos could fall ill,” she says lightly. “Here I thought you were immortals. Unlike the rest of us.”
Still, Stefano says nothing.
The longer he remains silent, the more nervous Lucy becomes. She scratches behind her ear, then glances to the door like she’s hoping for reinforcements. “I thought I’d be the last to arrive. But it seems the others are running late as well.”
“Vegas traffic,” Stefano says coolly.
Lucy’s silver gaze cuts to me again, this time laced with suspicion. Like she’s reevaluating what I am. Who I am.
People with power have more paranoia in their veins than blood. Rightfully so. With power comes an endless dance of dodging daggers. When every handshake hides a blade, trust is a luxury few can afford.
A server glides in to refill our water glasses, and Lucy looks visibly relieved by the interruption.
Stefano, meanwhile, adjusts his cufflinks, calm and collected as ever. He’s annoyingly good at this—keeping everyone off balance while he remains equanimous.
The chief of police arrives next. Then the district attorney. Then the state senator.
There’s a flurry of greetings and small talk before the meeting officially begins.
And then… the boredom sets in.
The discussion drones on, full of pomp and self-importance. They speak with the weighty cadence of men who believe they hold the city in their palms. Like they’re untouchable. Unassailable.
It’s almost funny.
I have to bite back a laugh.
Compared to some of the rooms I’ve been in—rooms where lives are traded like chips at a poker table—this feels like child’s play. Pretend power. Dress-up politics.
Stefano is, surprisingly, the most humble and grounded presence at the table.
He’s not flexing. Not threatening. Not talking just to hear his own voice.
He seems… thoughtful. Purposeful. Like he actually gives a damn about the city.
Meanwhile, the others are posturing, peacocking, desperate to remind everyone they matter.
But it’s obvious, painfully so, that he is the one with the real power. Not just at this table. In this city. The voice that holds the most weight here is his.
Watching him in this space… it throws me off. It’s hard to reconcile this man with the cruel, ice-veined man I also know him to be.
Lucy Rainford hangs on to every word that leaves his mouth. Her reactions swing wildly between wariness and thinly-veiled lust. Like she’s both terrified of him and wants to rip his clothes off.
It’s clear the latter has been indulged more than once. But the former, that obvious fear and hesitation, is being triggered by something.
Guilt, maybe. Or betrayal. Either way, it’s there. Flickering just beneath the surface.
The more I observe her, the more certain I become.
Almost two mind-numbing hours later, the meeting finally wraps, and my stomach is throwing an all-out rebellion. Two hours of watching these ego-trippers eat like royalty while I wasn’t even offered a mint.
Torture. Pure torture.
But I guess this is Stefano’s idea of a punishment. Petty, elegant revenge in the form of hunger.
Even so, suspicious behaviors didn’t go unnoticed by me.
While the others clear out with inflated self-importance like they’re off to rule the world, Lucy lingers. Her gaze lands on me, expectant and cold, as if she wants to order me to leave, but isn’t quite sure if she can.
I save her the torture. “I’ll give you two a moment.”
“Appreciated,” she replies with a polite nod, but her eyes are already on Stefano.
“There’s another meeting we need to get to,” Stefano says, straightening from his chair. “We can talk another time.”
Lucy is quick to close the gap between them, a hand slipping onto his shoulder with familiar intimacy. “What I wanted to discuss is… personal.” Her voice dips, sultry and suggestive. “Potential weekend plans…”
Subtle, she is not.
They’re positioned squarely between me and the door now, effectively blocking my path.
Stefano’s smile is pure diplomacy. “Another time, Lucy. As you might’ve heard, I’ve got a fair bit of insubordinates to subjugate these days.”
“Well, I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I announce, stepping toward them with pointed intent. “Surely you can spare the beautiful lady a few minutes of your time.”
Stefano’s gaze cuts to me, brow arching in faint amusement. Or suspicion.