Eve POV
I pulled myself into the fortified penthouse. The moment the heavy steel door clicked shut, my chest seized.
It was not a pressure. It was a serrated, dull-edged blade, thrust with precision between the third and fourth ribs, tearing the very air from my lungs. My knees struck the hardwood floor with a jolt that resonated in my teeth. Five years ago, I had intercepted a rival assassin's bullet intended for Julian's heart. It had made its ruin in my chest instead.
I stumbled to the kitchen counter, my fumbling hands entering the code into my emergency medical safe. I dry-swallowed two black-market pills and waited for the violent trip-hammer of my heart to subside.
Cold sweat gathered at my hairline. I leaned my forehead against the cool marble counter, my eyes shut tight against the tilting of the room.
At two in the morning, the security keypad beeped. Julian walked into the penthouse. He owned the building, as he owned all things of consequence in this city.
He entered the kitchen, holding a small velvet box. A confident, arrogant set to his mouth.
"I have brought it back," he said. "She has had her amusement. Now put it on."
I turned and picked up my tablet. I tapped the screen and pushed it across the marble island toward him. It was the security footage I had pulled from the street camera outside the restaurant.
It showed Isabella kissing his cheek while wearing the ring. It showed his Capos bowing to her—offering her the deference due a matriarch.
Julian stopped walking. His eyes locked on the screen. Then, his gaze drifted down to the counter. He saw the open medical safe. He saw the scattered pills.
His breath caught, and the arrogant set of his mouth slackened. He understood the precariousness of my physical state. He understood that the insult he had delivered had been severe enough to trigger a flare-up—and that every episode brought me closer to the final one.
"Eve," he said, his voice falling to a raw, urgent whisper. "I am sorry. I was merely fulfilling the old oath, to keep the peace. I concealed it from you to prevent Syndicate rumors. I did not wish to cause you any distress."
I set the tablet down.
"Leave the keycard on the counter," I said. "Return to the restaurant and take Isabella as your wife."
Julian stepped forward. His amber eyes turned dark. The apologetic man vanished, and the Don returned.
"I am not marrying Isabella," he said. "The Don's Command is that you will be my wife. You do not have the privilege of dismissing me."
He reached out and gripped my wrist, his fingers closing upon my skin with a possessive force. He pulled me flush against his hard chest.
"Release me," I said.
"She is a ward, Eve," he growled. "Like a sister. Cease this jealous display and remember your place."
I raised my free hand.
With a final, concentrated effort, I struck the Don of the Moretti Family across the face.
The sound was a sharp, singular crack in the quiet kitchen. It was a shocking, unforgivable breach of Omertà protocol. To strike a Boss was to invite death.
Julian froze, his head jerked to the side. A red mark bloomed on his sharp cheekbone. He slowly turned his head back to look at me, his eyes wide with a profound disbelief.
"I require a permanent separation," I said. "We are concluded."
Julian released my wrist. He took a slow, heavy breath, though his chest rose and fell rapidly with a rage he fought to contain.
"You are unwell," he said. "You are not thinking with clarity. I will depart and allow you time. We will discuss the wedding arrangements tomorrow."
He turned and started walking toward the door.
I picked up the velvet ring box from the counter and threw it hard at his broad back.
"Go give Isabella her due," I said.
Julian stopped. He turned and looked at the box lying on the floor. He picked it up, his knuckles stark white against the dark velvet.
He raised his arm and violently smashed the box against the marble floor. The antique hinges snapped. The priceless diamond bounced across the tiles and rolled under the refrigerator.
Julian turned his back to me and walked out, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.
I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the space he had occupied. The ring lay somewhere under the refrigerator, a relic of a dynasty that had demanded everything from me and given me nothing in return. My chest still ached, a dull, insistent reminder of how close I had come to death five years ago—and how little that sacrifice had ultimately mattered to the man I had saved.
Eve POV
With a strange and terrible calm, I crossed to the refrigerator. I knelt on the icy tiles to retrieve the diamond, leaving the shattered remains of its velvet box upon the kitchen island.
In my bedchamber, I drew a black duffel bag from the depths of the closet and began to fold my clothes with a methodical precision.
My telephone buzzed against the nightstand. It was a secure video message from Sasha—a trusted Associate in the Family, and my closest confidante.
The footage had been captured from the deep shadows of a booth inside the Family's subterranean speakeasy.
Julian sat at the center of a circular leather banquette, in an advanced state of intoxication. His tie hung loose, his collar unbuttoned, while his Capos surrounded him—smoking thick cigars and counting out heavy stacks of currency.
Isabella sat pressed flush against his side, her gaze fixed upon him with a calculated, wide-eyed devotion.
A pair of heavy brass dice clattered across the table; they were engaged in a traditional Syndicate game of loyalty.
Julian leaned forward, his eyes narrowing at the result. He had rolled the Boss's Command.
The ancient rules dictated that he must share an intimate gesture with a woman present. Tonight, the command was to eat from a single strand of pasta.
The Capos slammed their fists against the table, roaring their encouragement.
Isabella giggled, plucking a long strand of pasta from a shared plate. Placing one end between her lips, she leaned toward Julian.
At that moment, the telephone in my hand began to ring. It was Julian.
I answered the call, at once switching it to speaker.
"Come to the club, Eve," Julian ordered, his voice slurred but thick with entitlement.
"I am not coming," I replied, my tone devoid of inflection.
"Get down here now," he growled. "You are my betrothed. Prove it."
"Your game is a pathetic thing, Julian," I said.
The line went quiet. Through the speaker, the only sound was the heavy, thumping bass of the club's music.
"Are you truly defying me?" Julian asked, his voice dropping a full octave, suddenly laced with a cold, terrifying edge.
Without another word, I pressed the red button and terminated the call.
Less than a minute later, Sasha sent a second video.
In this new footage, Julian was staring down at his darkened telephone screen. His handsome features were contorted into a mask of such rage it was barely human.
Raising his arm, he hurled the device, shattering it into pieces against the exposed brick wall.
His wild eyes scanned the room until they locked upon the dark booth. He had seen Sasha holding her telephone. He knew she was recording his every action.
Julian lunged forward, dragging Sasha from the booth by the lapels of her jacket. He shoved her roughly toward the center of the room.
"Keep recording," he barked at her.
Then, he pivoted back. He grabbed Isabella by the nape of her neck, jerking her flush against his chest before crashing his mouth down onto hers.
It was a violent, bruising kiss, an act of pure spite. Isabella eagerly wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning into the display.
Around them, the Soldiers drew out their own telephones and began to record.
Julian did not stop. He devoured her mouth for what felt an agonizingly long time.
When he finally pulled back, he stared directly into the lens of Sasha's camera. A mocking, utterly cruel sneer curved his lips.
I sat on the edge of my mattress, watching the damning footage repeat itself. Beneath my ribs, it felt as though someone had packed a great mass of wet cotton, for each breath required a monumental effort and still left me wanting for air.
I shifted my gaze to the digital calendar glowing on the nightstand.
Today was the precise five-year anniversary of the day I had bled out on a filthy warehouse floor for the sole purpose of saving his life.
I stood, took hold of the zipper on my duffel bag, and pulled it shut. The sound was quiet, unremarkable—the closing of a zipper. But it carried the weight of a door locking forever.
