Chapter 9
Nine
Persia
Shit.
I stare at the words until they blur, the reality of my situation crashing over me like a wave. I made a deal with the devil, and now I'm learning the terms were never what I thought they were.
He is right and I hate that he is right. I think about calling Calla and Kiara, about having them pick me up so I can formulate a plan that isn’t living day to day but I need to be somewhere that doesn't smell like cedar and smoke and Rafael fucking Milano.
But I have honor, damn it. I made a promise, and even if it's killing me slowly, I won't be the one to break it first. I gave my word and unlike the people who raised me, my word means something.
I hate being a good girl. Lesson number five.
I step out of the bedroom and head for the elevator. The second I round the corner I freeze.
Drake Moses is leaning against the wall opposite the elevator, his silver hair perfectly groomed and his steel-gray eyes watching me with an expression that's equal parts amusement and assessment.
We haven’t formally been introduced. I’ve just picked up names here and there.
Marta mainly telling me snippets about each man.
Drake Moses is Rafael’s BFF, a silver fox with impeccable taste in suits.
He’s broad across the shoulders and looks like he enjoys going rounds on the punching bag.
Or people. Probably the latter given his profession.
He’s about an inch shorter than Rafael but commands attention of any rooms he’s in.
“Morning. Going somewhere, baby girl?” His smile is equal parts charm and warning.
My shoulders slump. “I was hoping for some fresh air.” I cross my arms over my chest and try not to let my disappointment show. “Let me guess. Rafael sent you to babysit me.”
“Sent is a strong word. Rafael asked me to keep you company.” His smile is warm but his eyes miss nothing. “There’s a difference.”
My brows raise. “Is there? We might have to agree to disagree.”
He pushes off the wall and crosses to where I'm standing, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that's nothing like Rafael's scent. He gathers my hand in his. “Look, I get it. You’re frustrated. You’re confused. You’re stuck in a penthouse with a man who runs hot and cold and won't give you a straight answer about anything. But he’s trying, Persia. In his own fucked-up way, he’s trying. ”
The use of my real name instead of some patronizing nickname makes me soften slightly. “Trying to what?”
He gives my hand a soft, friendly squeeze before withdrawing. “That's not my story to tell.” He nods toward the kitchen. “You hungry? I make a mean omelet.”
I shake my head, but an idea is already forming in my mind. “Actually, Marta's off today, and I was thinking of cooking dinner.”
Drake's eyebrows rise. “You cook?”
“It was all part of the grooming of making me a good wife, so said my mother.” I move toward the kitchen and start pulling items from the refrigerator, mentally cataloging what I have to work with.
Fresh herbs, tomatoes, a whole chicken, lemons, garlic, cream.
“I don’t have everything, but I guess I can make do with what there is. ”
“If you’re going to be here, you might as well help,” I say, tossing a stalk of celery in his direction.
He catches it one-handed. “Help with what?”
“A gratitude dinner. For Rafael. He saved me from Magnus Sterling, as you know. In my head that deserves a proper meal.” And it might make him actually want to have that conversation.
Drake slips off his jacket and rolls his sleeves higher. He picks up a knife and for a while we work in comfortable silence. Then he says, “So you wrote a wish on a piece of your dress with lip liner and dropped it in our box.” His smile is knowing.
“Yeah.”
“You know, most girls would have just fucked him.”
The knife in my hand pauses mid-chop. The words hit like a slap across my face, and I go still with my hand wrapped around a stalk of celery. Drake must see something in my expression because he immediately straightens, his face softening with regret.
Drake catches it immediately. “Damn it. That came out wrong. I meant you are different. I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
I focus on the vegetable in my hand, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “I guess I am just not his type because, news flash, he hasn’t touched me since stealing me,” I say to the cutting board. Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“That’s not—” Drake runs a hand through his silver hair and sighs. “That’s not what I meant. Rafael is... complicated. The fact that he hasn't touched you isn't because he doesn’t want to. Trust me on that.”
I'm explaining the finer points of making a proper roux, but all Drake does is study me for a beat, then pulls out his phone and types something I cannot see.
“Come on.” He jerks his head toward the elevator. “You said you didn’t have all your ingredients, right?”
“Right. I need milk. Heavy cream. And maybe something for dessert?”
Drake's smile returns, easy and charming. “Good. We can pick up what you need and I also know a place with cupcakes that will change your religion. Let’s go, baby girl.”
The prospect of leaving the penthouse, even for something as mundane as grocery shopping, fills me with a relief that borders on pathetic.
I try not to feel like a prisoner being granted yard time and go to grab my purse, but remember I have nothing.
I spy the phone Rafael left me, but opt to leave it since this skirt has no pockets.
Drake seems to notice all my mental speedbumps I’m hitting, but doesn’t say anything. He only follows me to the elevator.
The summer air is thick and humid, carrying the smell of exhaust and hot pavement and a thousand different lives being lived all around me.
I've never appreciated fresh air more than I do in this moment, surrounded by normal people doing normal things, blissfully unaware of the mafia wars and forced marriages and desperate wishes that have consumed my existence.
I take it all in as Drake drives us to a market on the near north side, a charming little place with overflowing produce bins and a bakery counter visible through the front window.
We are out of the car and moving toward the entrance when the first shot rings out.
The driver's side mirror shatters in a spray of glass and metal that sounds like a bomb detonating beside my ear.
Drake has his arm around my waist and is dragging me behind his parked car, his body covering mine as more gunfire erupts around us.
He pushes me against the frame of the car and puts his body over mine as the second and third shots punch through the windshield.
As soon as it goes silent I dare a glance.
And sure enough, a web of cracks spiderwebbing across the glass with two holes where I should be sitting.
“For fuck’s sake, man. Stay down, damn it! You get killed, Rafael will cut my balls off.” His voice is sharp, commanding, and nothing like the easy charm he’s shown me all day.
Glass shatters somewhere above us, and I hear screaming—other shoppers, I realize, innocent people caught in whatever hell has followed me out of Rafael's penthouse.
Drake pulls a gun from somewhere beneath his jacket and returns fire, the recoil jerking his arm with each shot.
And then his hand is around my arm hauling me across the console and out the passenger door.
"We need to move." He grabs my hand and pulls me into a crouch, his eyes scanning the chaos around us. “On my count, we run for the store. Don't stop, don't look back, just run. Understand?” He pulls out his phone and shoots a text off before putting it back in his pocket.
“Ready?”
I nod, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“One. Two. Three—go!”
My sandals hit pavement and we are running, which isn’t easy in a skirt that keeps tangling around my legs.
We sprint across the parking lot, bullets pinging off the asphalt.
Drake keeps his body between me and the direction the shots came from, one arm wrapped around my waist like a vice as we crash through the market entrance.
Customers scream and scatter as we barrel through displays of summer fruit, sending peaches and nectarines rolling across the floor in a cascade of deceptively cheerful colors.
More shots crack behind us, close enough that I feel the displaced air against my neck.
Drake shoves me behind a shelving unit stacked with canned goods before spinning to return fire. The percussive blasts of his weapon echo through the market aisles like thunder stripped of everything but survival.
“Careful with the people,” I warn. But from the looks of it, I’m worried for nothing because he has perfect aim. Two men with murder written all over their faces drop dead the next second in the entrance of the market.
My heart hammers hard enough to crack bone. I press my back against the metal shelving and try to breathe while gunfire tears through the store.
“This way. Through the back. There’s a loading dock exit.
” He grabs me and we weave through aisles of canned goods and breakfast cereal, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as more shots echo through the building.
We pass shoppers flat on the floor. My lungs burn and my legs ache but I don't stop, can't stop, not when Drake's grip on my hand is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
The back exit pours golden afternoon light and when we burst through it, a car is already waiting.
The loading dock door bursts open before we reach it, and I nearly scream before I recognize the man standing in the doorway—tall, dirty blond, with ice-colored eyes that sweep over us with clinical efficiency.
He’s another one of Rafael’s brothers, one I‘ve only briefly encountered and then nada.
He and Drake were present the day Rafael showed up at my wedding.
“Get in!”