Page 7 of Wicked Bloodlines

I’d just put everything back in the hidden panel when I heard footsteps in the hallway, heavy and deliberate. Not my father’s step, but one of his guards making an unscheduled patrol. Or I could have gotten caught up in what I’d been doing and lost track of time. The doorknob turned.

The door opened, spilling hallway light across the floor. The guard on tonight was one of the newer ones. He didn’t move as easily or quietly as some of the men. As he cased the office, his flashlight cut through the darkness, the beam sweeping methodically across the room. I crouched behind the desk where I’d been working. I didn’t breathe. Couldn’t because I just knew my scheme had failed and my fate didn’t look good at the moment.

Then his radio crackled.

“North perimeter check,” came a tinny voice.

The guard hesitated, then lifted the radio to his mouth. “All clear in the main house,” he responded. “Finishing sweep of the first floor now.”

He made one more pass with his flashlight, the edge of the beam sliding inches from my face. I felt sweat trickle between my shoulder blades, my muscles cramping from holding perfectly still. After what felt like an eternity, he turned and walked back to the door, pausing for one last look before stepping out into the hallway.

I didn’t move for sixty seconds, counting each one in my head while listening for his retreating footsteps. When I was certain he was gone, I slipped from my hiding place and moved to the other side of the desk. Working quickly, I replaced the keys in my father’s jacket pocket, then made my way to the door. I pressed my ear against it, hoping like shit the hallway was empty before easing open the door and stepping out.

The return journey to my bedroom felt endless, every shadow suddenly menacing, every creak magnified. But years of practice guided me safely back. Only when my bedroom door was locked behind me did I allow myself to breathe normally again.

I plugged my phone into my laptop, downloading the images I’d captured. They appeared on screen one by one, irrefutable evidence of my father’s duplicity. He wasn’t just selling me to the Lucas. He was setting them up for destruction.

And now I had proof.

I stared at the documents, my mind racing. This changed everything. I could use this information—not just to escape, but potentially to leverage protection from the Lucas themselves. If they knew what my father and the Rossis were planning…

My wedding to Matteo Luca suddenly took on new significance. It wasn’t an obstacle to overcome. It was an opportunity. Possibly the only real play I had in this game. I would be inside their organization, positioned perfectly to either warn them or use this information to secure my own freedom.

Tomorrow, I would meet my future husband. And while he might see only a dutiful Marchesi daughter being handed over as part of a business arrangement, I would be assessing him as well. And determining whether he could be an unwitting ally in my escape from hell.

Chapter Three

Matteo

I’d been pacing the length of High Tower’s formal dining room for twenty minutes, wearing a groove into the Italian marble like a wolf circling the walls of its enclosure. The room was designed to impress with crystal chandeliers throwing prismatic light across a table long enough to land a small aircraft, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a commanding view of the financial district below, but the walls felt like they closed in around me. The suit didn’t help. Vittorio had picked it out, a charcoal gray that fit like it had been designed specifically for me and cost more than most people’s cars. I hated suits. No matter how flexible the fabric or how well the fit, fighting in a suit never worked out well.

I checked my watch for the fifth time in three minutes. The Marchesis were late. Whether it was a power play on Cesare’s part or just the old man moving slowly, only time would tell, but the waiting was corrosive. My knuckles throbbed beneath the suit cuffs, the scabs from yesterday’s sparring session cracking every time I flexed my fingers. I’d barely slept. After the incident at The Gray, the woman who’d known about the Marchesi arrangement before the ink had dried, had kept me up most of the night running down leads. We had a leak, and it needed to be found before this alliance was built on a foundation of compromised intelligence. Dario had listened with his usual calm and told me to handle it after the meeting. After. As if I could just shelve the fact that someone in our operation was feeding information to people who shouldn’t have it. If anyone else had asked me to hold up on this, I’d have called them a Goddamned idiot, but Dario was anything but an idiot. Ruthless. Cruel to everyone but his wife, Belle. But not an idiot.

Staff had laid the table with bone china, crystal stemware, and enough silverware to arm a small platoon. A ridiculous spread for what amounted to a business transaction dressed up as a social call. I reached for one of the water glasses, considered it, then set it back down. Water wasn’t going to cut it.

“If you keep pacing like that, you’ll wear through the floor and end up in accounting.”

Dario’s voice preceded him into the room by half a second. He appeared in the doorway, immaculate as always in a navy suit that probably cost twice what mine did, though his was worn with the ease of a man who’d been born in bespoke tailoring. A Cuban cigar rested unlit between his fingers. He said the scent soothed him. My brothers all laughed but I didn’t get the joke.

“They’re late,” I said.

“Cesare Marchesi has been late to every meeting he’s attended since 1987. It’s how he reminds people he was important once.” Dario moved to the head of the table, adjusting the placement of a water glass by a fraction of an inch. The man noticed everything. “How are the hands?”

I glanced down at my knuckles. “Fine.”

“They don’t look fine.” His sharp gaze lifted to meet mine. “Listen to me carefully, Matteo. This meeting sets the tone for everything that follows. The Rossis have been moving faster than anticipated. Anthony Rossi closed on another shipping company yesterday. That’s four in five weeks. Vincent’s courting three of our associates. We need the Marchesi connections to the old guard, and we need them now. Not next month. Now.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

“Then act like it.” His voice didn’t sharpen. Dario never needed volume. “Don’t intimidate the girl. Don’t antagonize Cesare. Shake hands, make conversation, and for the love of God, don’t bleed on anything.”

I almost laughed. Almost. “You’re asking me to play a part I’m not built for.”

“I’m asking you to do what you’ve always done.” Dario held my gaze, and saw the trust my brother had in me. “What’s necessary for the family.” Then he grinned. “Besides, you might find you like the girl.” He left before I could respond, disappearing down the corridor to greet our guests in the lobby, no doubt.

The minutes crawled. I stationed myself by the windows, staring down at the city below, and thought about what kind of woman lets herself be traded like currency. A weak one, probably. Someone who’d been raised soft, sheltered from the uglier realities of our world. Cesare’s little princess, packaged and delivered as part of a business deal. She’d cry within the first week. I gave it three days before she begged to go home. Then the double doors opened, and everything I’d assumed went sideways.

Cesare Marchesi entered first, which was expected. The man would walk into his own funeral before letting anyone else take the lead. He moved with the deliberate grace of someone managing old pain, his custom cane tapping a measured rhythm on the marble. Silver-streaked hair impeccably styled. Dark suit cut close enough to hide whatever physical decline he was fighting. The thin scar along his jawline caught the light as he turned to greet Dario, his cultured voice filling the room with pleasantries that meant absolutely nothing. I recognized the performance. I’d watched my own brother perfect it for years. But I barely registered Cesare because the woman who followed him through those doors seized every scrap of my attention and held it hostage.