Chapter 6 #4
“He practically purred,” I say, glancing down at my phone as it buzzes. “Started bragging about someone manipulating both sides—making the Italians think the Bratva is gearing up for betrayal. Something about Calderone’s circle feeding names in both directions.”
Kellan’s jaw flexes slightly as I continue reading.
“He’s not the smartest. Loose lips. Desperate for power. He wanted to impress someone—thought I was just there to stroke his ego.”
Ash leans forward slightly between the seats. “And?”
“I made him believe he almost had me,” I say, voice calm. “Let him touch what he thought he owned. Then reminded him exactly how sharp I can be.”
“You’re evil,” Ash mutters, but there’s pride laced in it.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m efficient.”
The car speeds down the long stretch of road, headlights painting stripes across the forest as we leave the Calderone estate behind. The silence inside is thick, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just… watchful.
We’re always watching.
Kellan speaks after a beat. “Where to?”
I glance back down at the screen and recite the address Rafael’s message provided. It’s not the penthouse this time—it’s farther, more secluded. His estate.
Private. Powerful. And deliberate.
Ash shifts slightly in his seat. “Interesting he didn’t want to meet in the city.”
“He’s keeping this quiet,” I say. “Keeping me quiet.”
Kellan raises a brow. “And you’re still going.”
“Of course I am.”
“Alone?”
“No,” I say. “You’re circling the estate and waiting nearby.”
“You expect trouble?”
“I expect him.”
Which is worse. Because Rafael doesn’t do anything by accident. And if he wants to talk after tonight? Then he wants something more than a debrief.
The drive continues in silence, broken only by the soft hum of tires on asphalt and the steady pulse of my thoughts.
I close my eyes briefly, letting the weight of everything settle. Alessio’s words. Leo’s questions. Rafael’s murmur at my ear like a promise disguised as a command. And the sting of power in his voice.
By the time we reach the outer gate of the Romanov estate, I’ve reset everything. My expression. My posture. My mask.
I’m not walking into a meeting. I’m walking into the lion’s den. And this time?
I don’t plan on leaving empty-handed.
The car slows to a stop just outside the tall iron gate. It’s black, like everything else he touches. Sleek. Sharp. Unapologetic. And locked.
The lights lining the edge of the stone path flicker softly, revealing only enough of the sprawling estate behind it to suggest something bigger waits in the dark.
A figure approaches from a smaller side gate tucked next to the main one. The man is dressed in black, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal a tattoo winding around one forearm. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t need to. He’s waiting.
Not for them. Just for me.
He opens the smaller gate with a loud clank and steps aside, gesturing silently for me to come through.
But the car gate stays shut. The message is clear.
“Only you,” Kellan mutters under his breath beside me.
“Mmhmm.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Yes, I do.”
I open the door slowly, the night air brushing against my legs as I step out, heels clicking against the gravel.
Ash leans forward between the seats, resting an arm on the back of mine. “Be careful in there.”
“Always.”
I look between them once more. Two shadows. My shadows. Then I turn toward the man waiting at the open gate and step through without hesitation.
He doesn’t introduce himself. Just gestures for me to follow, and I do.
The path is long. Lined with dark rose bushes, clipped perfectly at the base, stretching along the stone walkway. The scent is subtle—almost cold.
Rafael would never fill his home with sweetness. Only reminders.
We reach the front door—double black, framed in dark marble and fitted with matte brass handles. The man reaches forward and pulls one open, but he doesn’t step inside.
“He’s waiting upstairs,” he says simply. “First door on the left once you reach the second floor.”
“Thanks.”
He nods, then turns and walks back down the path like the scene never happened.
The door clicks shut behind me. Soft. Final. And just like that—I’m inside Rafael Romanov’s estate. Alone.
It’s quiet. But not empty. I feel the house before I fully take it in.
Stone beneath my heels. Dark floors. A tall ceiling with no chandelier. Just long, linear lights stretching across the hall like blades. The walls are all neutral—white and charcoal—but somehow it feels colder than black.
Like power was drained from the walls just to keep control in Rafael’s hands.
Paintings hang in perfect symmetry down the corridor—none with people. Just landscapes. Stark. Violent. A frozen lake. A forest stripped bare. A storm over a field that looks too much like war.
Everything here means something. And nothing is an accident.
I start walking. Not quickly. I want to feel the silence.
The floor creaks once beneath my heel, but otherwise… not a sound. No footsteps above. No music. Just a hum beneath the surface, like the house itself is holding its breath.
My fingers brush against the banister as I ascend the stairs, tracing the polished wood. My other hand drifts near my hip, instinctively checking for the dagger still strapped to my thigh.
Still there. Still ready.
Even if I’m not here to use it. Unless I need to.
The hallway upstairs is darker than the one below. Only two sconces light the path, their golden glow washing over the smooth walls like fire that never touches.
I reach the door. First on the left. Closed. I stare at it for a second, heart steady, mind sharper than ever.
Rafael is behind that door. And whatever game he thinks he’s playing— I’ve already decided how it ends.
I stare at the door for a second longer. Just enough to remind myself that this isn’t his world. It’s mine, too. Then I wrap my fingers around the cold handle and pull. No knock. No hesitation. Just silence and then—soundless tension, wrapping around me like smoke.
He’s standing behind the desk. Tall. Composed. Unmoving. Black dress pants hug his hips, the white shirt tucked neatly, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
His forearms are corded muscle and ink—black lines and shapes that disappear beneath the cuff, wrapping his skin like a secret language I haven’t learned yet.
One hand rests against the window frame. He doesn’t turn right away. Of course he doesn’t. He’s the kind of man who controls even the silence.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low, almost lazy.
I shut the door behind me with a soft click. “I wasn’t aware I was expected to race here.”
“You were expected to arrive. You did.”
Then he turns. And I see the rest.
His shirt is unbuttoned at the top—just enough to reveal another peek of ink at his collarbone. Black and sharp and elegant, disappearing beneath the white cotton like a blade sheathed under silk.
His eyes find mine. Not rushed. Not aggressive. But deliberate. And all-consuming.
“Did he talk?”
“Alessio?” I say, slow. Controlled. “He practically confessed in a whisper.”
“You slipped something under his skin,” Rafael says, walking toward the desk now, eyes never leaving me. “I watched you.”
“Did you?”
“Your hand. Under the table. His eyes. His breath.” He pauses at the edge of the desk. “I know what seduction looks like, Isabella. ”
I smile, stepping further into the room. “Then you know it’s not about touch. It’s about belief.”
“And what did he believe?”
“That he had a chance.”
“And you let him,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Long enough to get what you wanted.”
I circle slowly behind his desk, fingers drifting across the polished edge like I own it. I don’t rush. I want him to watch me claim the space.
And he does. His eyes follow every step.
“I thought you’d be angrier,” I say softly.
“Why would I be angry?”
“You saw me seduce a man who might’ve traded your name for a glass of whiskey.”
“But he didn’t.”
I glance back at him over my shoulder. “So you do trust me.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t stop me either.”
“Because I wanted to see what you’d do.”
I stop walking. Turn and sit slowly—on the edge of his desk. Cross my legs just enough for the slit in my dress to shift, the dagger still pressed beneath it like a secret we both pretend not to see.
He leans against the arm of the leather chair, his posture deceptively casual. But his eyes? Razor-sharp.
“You like games,” I murmur. “But only when you control the board.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?”
“I don’t mind losing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says, voice dark. “Because you don’t lose either.”
The silence stretches. But it’s not empty. It’s thick. Woven with implication.
We’re circling again. Two flames pressing closer—daring the other to burn first.
“What do you want from me, Rafael?” I ask, finally. “Really.”
His eyes narrow. “Truth.”
I laugh under my breath. “You wouldn’t recognize it.”
“Would you?”
“I live by it.”
“You live by something, ” he says. “But I don’t think it’s truth.”
We stare at each other. His knuckles brush the edge of the desk beside my thigh. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the heat between our skin.
“You did well tonight,” he says eventually.
“That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I lean back slightly, resting one hand on the desk, watching him. Not like prey.
Not like prey ever.
Like an equal. Like the match he didn’t expect to strike this fast or this hard. And I can feel it building again. That tension. That pull.
But I don’t move. And neither does he. Not yet.
His eyes haven’t moved from mine. But his body does. He circles the desk slowly, deliberately, like he’s stalking something he isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch yet.
Then his hand lifts—rough, warm, careful—and the pads of his fingers brush lightly against my arm. Against the shallow slice that still decorates the skin there, half-healed from the night he tested me with blood and blades and games.
My body tenses, just slightly.