Page 11 of Reign
“No,” I cut in, softer than I usually would. There’s no point in tearing into a man who is more useful cooperative than he is terrified. “We’ll head straight to the conference room. My people can bring anything we need.”
He nods, relief flickering across his face. “This way, please,” he says, pivoting and leading us toward the bank of elevators with his pace just shy of a rush.
I step into the elevator and stand at the back with Kai and Maksim flanking me. The concierge hovers in front, and I don’t have to look at him to know he’s nervous.
I watch my own reflection in the mirrored pane, and feel that old irritation stir. The one that has never fully left since that invitation came through.
Vieri.
Even thinking it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, though not for the reasons it should. That’s always been the fucking problem.
I’ve hated the Vieri family my whole life—that’s the truth I know. That’s the truth I was raised on. Enemy. Rival. A man my bloodline has every reason to despise and every obligation to destroy.
I know all of that. I know it in the same way I know my own name, my own territory lines, and my family history written in blood, violence, and expectation.
So why the fuck does it never feel complete?
That’s what drives me half mad about it. I know how to carry hatred—hatred is simple. But every time Vincenzo comes up, every time someone looks at me a split second too long before answering, I get the same ugly sensation that everyone in the room is standing around a body no one will tell me about.
I rub the edge of my thumb over my lower lip, but then stop myself from repeating the old habit. The old blanks in my head start to irritate me again; sealed rooms I’ve never managed to force open, no matter how hard I’ve pushed. No matter what doctors, specialists, or old family fixers my father dragged in to evaluate whether I could be repaired.
The answer was always no, and then the answer stopped mattering because I made myself too dangerous for anyone to treat that brokenness as weakness.
But there are moments—very brief and fucking ugly—when I can feel the edges of those missing pieces pressing from the inside. Vincenzo’s name seems to be the pressure point.
Nobody tells me shit. Not my father, who serves as my confidant and knows my moods better than Kai, though Kai is too loyal to insult me with evasions. Not Maksim, who doesn’t give a fuck about anything as long as he can kill it. And not Arseniy.
Especially not Arseniy.
The thought of him brings a familiar hardening to my jaw. My older brother hasn’t spoken to me in years, and I understand why. He abdicated—left without a word. For a man who spent years being the family’s blade, he became a ghost the second his traitor wife took her last breath.
Duty is not a choice—guess the same didn’t apply to him.
The doors open onto the executive floor with thicker carpeting, fewer cameras in obvious sight, and two separate security screenings arranged in a tasteful choke point before the conference wing.
Byrne’s people handle the first; King’s and Reyes’ men stand visible at the second. Vieri’s people, if they’re already here, are nowhere in sight.
Somewhere inside this building sits Vincenzo Vieri, choosing to make an entrance and keep us all waiting. That would track. He always had a talent for showmanship.
… I think.
The double doors open before we reach them, Ardelean staff performing choreography rehearsed to death. The room beyond is all glass and dark polished wood, the city spread beneath it like a lit stage set.
A long table dominates the center, set not with food but with water, tablets, and dossiers. There are five principal seats and secondary chairs set back for advisors who know their place. Enough space between each territory marker to suggest professionalism and hide distrust.
Helena Byrne is already seated with a cigarette between her fingers. She’s the first thing most men in this world underestimate and the last mistake some of them ever make.
Mid-forties, maybe, though age sits differently on women who have learned how to weaponize poise. Her dark hair is cleanly pinned back, green eyes as cool as winter glass. There’s no smile on her face, but there’s no need for one.
Helena built her power in rooms full of men who thought their underestimation counted as an advantage. Now she wears authority with the kind of ruthless elegance that makes weaker men bristle.
She offers me a measured nod as I enter, neither deferential nor foolishly familiar. “Pakhan.”
I respectfully return her nod. “Lady Byrne.”
To her right sits Stefano Reyes—dark hair, even darker eyes, broad through the shoulders, black suit straining a little at the arms. He has a boxer’s stillness even at rest. He looks at me once, then nods as well.
“Dragovich.”
