Chapter 4: Breakfast With the Enemy
The word landed like a bullet.
Wife.
Roxy stood in the doorway of the study, bare feet freezing against the marble, damp hair dripping onto her shoulders, and felt the floor drop out from under her. Not because she was jealous—she barely knew this man, had known him for all of twelve hours, and half of those had been spent with his cock inside her. Jealousy would be insane.
But the word still hit like a fist to the sternum.
"You're married."
Moretti didn't turn from the window. His reflection in the glass was a ghost—dark hair, dark suit, dark everything. "I am."
"And you didn't think to mention that before you—" She stopped. Gestured vaguely at herself. At him. At the bed upstairs with its black silk sheets and the memory of his mouth on her spine. "Before all of that?"
"Would it have changed anything?"
"Yes."
"Would it?" He turned then. Slowly. His eyes found hers across the room—cold, unreadable, that same blue as a winter sky right before it snows. "If I'd told you I had a wife, would you have walked out that door? Left Bree to deal with the consequences of what she did?"
Roxy's jaw tightened. He had her there, and they both knew it.
"That's what I thought." He moved away from the window, crossing toward her with that unhurried stride. "Valentina and I have an arrangement. It's not what you think."
"I don't think anything. I don't know you."
"You know enough."
"I know you fuck like you're trying to prove something." The words came out sharp, meant to cut. "I know you've got a wife who looks at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe. I know you gave me a necklace that probably means something I don't understand, and I know you're standing there acting like none of this matters when it obviously does."
Moretti stopped a foot away. Close enough that she could smell him—coffee and sandalwood and something underneath that was just him. Just skin. Just the memory of last night.
"Valentina is my wife," he said, each word measured. "She's also the daughter of a man who would have killed me if I'd refused to marry her. The arrangement kept the peace between our families. It still does."
"So she's a business partner."
"She's a weapon." His voice didn't change. Didn't waver. "One I've been managing for six years. She doesn't love me. I don't love her. But she's useful, and she's dangerous, and she's going to want to meet you properly."
"I already met her."
"You exchanged six words in a hallway." He shook his head. "That's not meeting. That's a warning shot."
Roxy's stomach clenched. "A warning shot?"
"Valentina doesn't do anything without purpose. She saw you. She saw the necklace. She knows exactly who you are and what you mean." He paused. "She's waiting in the dining room."
"For me?"
"For us." He reached out, caught her elbow in his hand. "Come on."
"I'm not dressed."
"You're fine."
"I'm barefoot, Moretti. I look like I just crawled out of your bed."
His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something darker. "You did just crawl out of my bed."
"And that's the problem."
"No." He tugged her forward, and she followed because her legs apparently hadn't gotten the memo that she was supposed to be running. "The problem is that you care what she thinks. Don't. She's not your enemy unless you make her one."
They walked through corridors that all looked the same—marble, art, shadows. Roxy's bare feet made no sound. Moretti's shoes clicked like a metronome. The house was too quiet. Too still. She felt like she was walking into a trap, and she couldn't see the walls closing in.
Then they reached the dining hall.
It stretched like a blade of polished obsidian, twenty seats long and mostly empty, the vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow above a chandelier made of what looked like frozen silver tears. Candles flickered along the table. The marble floor reflected everything like a mirror.
And at the head of the table, alone, sat Valentina.
She'd changed clothes. The red dress was gone, replaced by something black and severe—high neck, long sleeves, no jewelry except for a thin gold band on her left hand. Her blonde hair was pulled back tight enough to stretch the skin at her temples. She looked like a statue. Like something carved and placed there to watch.
There was one place setting in front of her. Just one. A single cup of black coffee, steam curling toward the ceiling.
She looked up when they entered. Her eyes went to Roxy first—the wrinkled dress, the bare feet, the damp hair, the phoenix necklace resting against her sternum. Then to Moretti, who had stopped just inside the doorway, releasing Roxy's elbow like he was handing her off.
"Sit," Valentina said.
Her voice was pleasant. Warm, almost. Like she was welcoming a guest to a dinner party.
Roxy didn't move.
Valentina's smile widened. Just a fraction. Just enough to show teeth. "I said sit."
The alternative was a scene. Roxy could feel it—the tension coiling in the room, Moretti's silence, the weight of Valentina's gaze. She couldn't afford a scene. She barely knew the rules of this world, but she knew enough to understand that showing weakness was a death sentence.
So she walked to the table. Pulled out the chair across from Valentina. Sat.
The marble was cold under her feet. The chair was heavy, carved from something dark and expensive. She felt small. She felt like a specimen under glass.
Moretti moved to the window. He didn't sit. Didn't speak. Just stood there with his back to them, looking out at the grounds, letting his wife circle like a shark.
Valentina poured coffee. She did it herself, lifting a silver pot from somewhere Roxy hadn't noticed, filling a second cup that appeared like magic in front of her. The liquid was black and steaming and smelled like it could strip paint.
"Drink."
Roxy drank. It burned her tongue. She didn't flinch.
"Good." Valentina set the pot down. Folded her hands on the table. "Now. Let's talk."
"I don't have anything to say."
"You don't have to say anything. This isn't a conversation. It's an interview." Valentina's smile didn't waver. "Where are you from?"
"Here."
"Specifics."
Roxy took another sip of coffee. Let the burn settle in her chest. "Southside. Grew up in a walk-up off Morrison. My mom worked at a diner. My dad was never around."
"Was?"
"Died when I was twelve. Overdose."
The lie came easy. It always did. She'd been telling versions of it since she was old enough to understand that the truth was a weapon people could use against you. Her mother was alive. Her father was alive. They lived in a split-level in Jersey and had no idea their daughter had spent the last four years running errands for people who paid in cash and threats.
Valentina tilted her head. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"You're not."
"No." The smile sharpened. "I'm not. But it's polite to say."
She lifted her cup, took a delicate sip, set it down. Her eyes never left Roxy's face.
"What did your people do?"
"Whatever they could."
"Specifically."
"My mom waited tables. I ran numbers for a bookie after school. Small-time stuff. Nothing that would interest you."
"Everything interests me." Valentina leaned forward slightly. "Have you ever killed a man?"
The question landed like a slap. Roxy kept her face still. Kept her breathing even. Kept her hands wrapped around the coffee cup like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
"No."
"Would you?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know." Valentina's voice was soft. Almost gentle. "That's an interesting answer. Most people say no right away. They want you to believe they're innocent. Clean. But you left it open. Like you've thought about it."
"I've thought about a lot of things."
"Like what it would feel like to watch the light go out of someone's eyes? To feel their blood on your hands? To know that you ended a life and there's no taking it back?"
Roxy set her cup down. The porcelain clicked against the saucer. "Is there a point to this?"
"There's always a point." Valentina sat back. Crossed her legs. The movement was fluid, deliberate, like everything else about her. "I'm trying to figure out what you are. You're not a thief—your friend is the thief. You're not a killer—you don't have the eyes for it. You're not a whore—Damien doesn't pay for what he can get for free."
"He didn't pay me."
"No. He gave you a necklace." Valentina's gaze dropped to the phoenix. Lingered. "Do you know what that means?"
"I'm guessing you're about to tell me."
"It means he's claimed you." Valentina's eyes came back up. Met Roxy's. "He's never kept one before. The women, the girls, whatever you want to call them—they come and go. A night. A week. Never longer. Never with jewelry."
"Maybe I'm special."
"Maybe you are." Valentina's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Or maybe you're a liability. A weakness. Something he thinks he wants but hasn't realized he can't afford."
She stood. The chair scraped against marble, a sound like a scream. She walked around the table slowly, heels cracking against the floor like gunshots, until she was standing right behind Roxy. Close enough that Roxy could smell her perfume—expensive, cold, the kind of scent that belonged on a corpse laid out for viewing.
"He's never kept one before," Valentina said, her voice low. "You should know what that means."
Roxy's heart hammered. She didn't turn around. Didn't move. "What does it mean?"
Valentina leaned down. Her lips brushed Roxy's ear. Her breath was warm, and her words were ice.
"It means he'll destroy you before he lets anyone else have you. He'll break you down into pieces so small you won't remember what you were before him. He'll own you, Roxanne. Every thought. Every breath. Every fucking heartbeat." A pause. "And I'll help."
She straightened. Walked to where Moretti stood at the window. Kissed him on the cheek—a wife's kiss, chaste and practiced, the kind of gesture that belonged in a photograph.
Then she was gone. Heels clicking down the corridor. Gunshots fading into silence.
Roxy sat alone at the table. Her coffee had gone cold. Her hands were shaking. She stared at the phoenix pendant hanging around her neck, and for the first time since she'd walked into this house, she felt genuinely afraid.
Moretti hadn't moved.
He was still at the window. Still watching the grounds. Still silent. The candlelight flickered across his profile—the sharp jaw, the cold eyes, the mouth that had been between her legs not twelve hours ago.
"She's lying," Roxy said.
"Is she?"
Roxy turned in her chair. "You're not going to destroy me. You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
"That's what you keep saying, and it doesn't mean anything." She stood. The chair scraped behind her. "I'm not some—some project. I'm not a pet. I'm not yours just because you put your dick in me and gave me jewelry."
Moretti turned.
His face was unreadable. That same cold mask he wore like armor. But his eyes—his eyes were different. Hotter. Something burning underneath the ice.
"You think that's what last night was?"
"I don't know what last night was."
"Neither do I." He crossed the room. Slow. Deliberate. Each step measured like he was approaching a wild animal. "But I know I don't regret it. I know I want to do it again. I know that when I saw you standing in that doorway with your wet hair and your bare feet and my necklace around your throat, I wanted to throw you over this table and fuck you until you couldn't remember your own name."
Roxy's breath caught.
"That's not ownership," he continued. "That's want. That's hunger. But Valentina isn't wrong. I don't keep people. I don't hold on. So if I'm holding onto you, there's a reason. And I intend to find out what it is."
He stopped in front of her. Close enough to touch. Close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his body.
"Until then," he said, "you're mine. Not because I own you. Because I've decided you're worth keeping."
Roxy stared up at him. Her heart was pounding. Her palms were sweating. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to run—to get out of this house, this world, this man, before he swallowed her whole.
Instead, she reached up. Grabbed the front of his shirt. Pulled him down.
His mouth crashed against hers.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was teeth and tongue and the taste of coffee and something darker underneath—possession, hunger, the raw animal need that had been simmering between them since the moment she'd walked into his study.
He grabbed her hips. Lifted her. Set her on the edge of the table, sending the coffee cups clattering to the floor. The porcelain shattered. Neither of them cared.
His hands were everywhere. In her hair. On her thighs. Pushing up the hem of her dress. She grabbed at his belt, yanked it open, shoved her hand inside his pants and found him hard and hot and ready.
"Fuck," he growled against her mouth. "You're going to be the death of me."
"At least you'll die happy."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were wild. His chest was heaving. He looked like a man on the edge of something he couldn't control.
"I'm going to fuck you on this table," he said. "Right here. Right now. And when I'm done, you're going to walk back to your room with my cum dripping down your legs, and you're going to think about me every time you move."
"Promises, promises."
He didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He just hooked his hands under her thighs, pulled her forward, and impaled her on his cock in one brutal stroke.
Roxy's head fell back. A moan tore out of her throat—raw, shameless, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. He was so deep. So thick. Stretching her in a way that was almost too much, almost painful, but her body just opened for him like it was what she'd been built to do.
He didn't wait. Didn't let her adjust. Just started fucking her—hard, fast, the table creaking beneath her with every thrust. His hands gripped her hips like he was trying to leave fingerprints. His teeth found her throat, her collarbone, the sensitive spot behind her ear.
"Look at you," he growled. "Taking my cock like you were made for it."
"I was—" She gasped. "I was made for a lot of things."
"Not like this." He bit her shoulder. Hard enough to bruise. "Not for anyone else. Just me."
She should have argued. Should have told him to go fuck himself, that she wasn't property, that she belonged to no one. But his cock was hitting something deep inside her—some spot that made her vision blur and her thoughts scatter—and all she could do was hold on.
The necklace bounced against her chest with every thrust. The phoenix. His mark.
"You're close," he said. "I can feel it."
"Yes—"
"Beg me."
"Fuck you."
He stopped. Just like that—buried inside her, every inch of him pressed against every inch of her, but not moving. His eyes burned down at her, wild and cold and patient.
"Beg me."
Roxy wanted to fight. Wanted to claw at him and tell him to move, goddamn it, to finish what he started. But she was so close—so fucking close—and she could feel her orgasm hovering just out of reach, waiting for him to give it to her.
"Please."
He didn't move.
"Please," she said again. Louder. "Please fuck me. Please let me come. Please—"
He slammed into her.
The orgasm hit like a freight train. She screamed—actually screamed, the sound ripping out of her throat and bouncing off the walls—and her body convulsed around him, gripping his cock so tight he groaned.
He didn't stop. Kept fucking her through it, riding her through the aftershocks, his rhythm brutal and unrelenting. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his waist. She was babbling now—filthy things, desperate things, please and more and don't stop, don't ever fucking stop.
"Good girl," he growled. "That's my good girl."
Two more thrusts. Three. Then he was coming—buried to the hilt, pulsing inside her, a guttural sound tearing from his chest. She felt every spasm, every hot pulse, and it sent her spiraling into a second orgasm that left her limp and shaking on the table.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Him inside her. Her wrapped around him. Both of them breathing like they'd run a marathon.
Then he pulled out.
Slowly. Carefully. His eyes never left hers as he did it, like he was cataloging every twitch of her face, every flutter of her lashes. When he was done, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it gently between her legs.
"Don't waste a drop," he said.
Roxy laughed. It came out shaky, breathless. "You're insane."
"Probably." He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket—god, what was he going to do with that?—and helped her off the table. Her legs barely held her. She wobbled, and he caught her elbow, steadying her.
"Go to your room. Shower. Sleep." He stepped back. The businesslike tone was back, the cold mask sliding into place. "You have a long day tomorrow."
"Moretti—"
"Damien." He said it like a correction. Like a gift. "When we're alone, you call me Damien."
She stared at him. At this man who had just fucked her on his dining room table while his wife's coffee still steamed on the floor. At this man who gave her jewelry and threatened her and protected her and owned her, all in the same breath.
"Damien," she said.
His eyes flickered. Something passed through them—something warm, something human, something that disappeared before she could name it.
"Go," he said.
She went.
But halfway down the corridor, she stopped. Turned. Looked back at the dining hall, where he still stood by the table, this time in the window's light. His reflection was a shadow, his head bowed.
The phoenix was warm against her heart.
And Roxy realized, with a sick lurch in her gut, that Valentina hadn't been lying at all.
She went to her room.
The shower was scalding, steam curling into every corner of the small bathroom until she couldn't see her own reflection in the mirror. She stood under the spray with her forehead pressed against the tile, letting the water run over her shoulders, down her back, between her legs. The evidence of what they'd done in that dining hall swirled down the drain. She scrubbed herself raw, washed her hair twice, and still felt him on her skin.
When she finally climbed out, the towel was rough against her body. She didn't bother looking for clothes—just pulled back the white sheets and slid between them naked, her damp hair fanned across the pillow. The phoenix pendant stayed around her neck. She couldn't bring herself to take it off.
Sleep came fast and hard, like a fist to the jaw.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Roxy's eyes snapped open. The room was pitch black—no light bleeding through the curtains, no sound except the alarm screaming from the nightstand. She fumbled for her phone, squinting at the screen.
5:30 AM.
The number glowed in the darkness, indifferent and relentless. She groaned, rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling she couldn't see. Her body ached in places she'd forgotten she had. Her thighs burned. Her neck was stiff. And there was a bruise on her shoulder—she could feel it, tender and swollen, where his teeth had been.
She needed coffee.
The thought was immediate and all-consuming. There was no coffee in her room. No coffee on the third floor. No coffee anywhere in this goddamn mansion except the kitchen, where she'd stood less than twenty-four hours ago and watched him read his tablet like he hadn't just fucked her against his desk.
Roxy threw back the covers.
She pulled on the black lace dress from yesterday—it smelled like sex and shame and she didn't care—and slipped out the door without turning on any lights. The corridor was a black tunnel. Her bare feet whispered against the marble, and her hand trailed along the wall to keep her bearings.
The kitchen was at the end of the hall. She pushed through the door and was met with more darkness. No windows, no night lights, nothing but the faint hum of appliances and the distant murmur of the fountain outside.
She didn't bother with the overhead lights. Instead, she felt her way to the counter—past the island, past the espresso machine, past the spot where he'd pulled her into his arms and kissed her like he was drowning. The fridge was somewhere to her left. She opened it and let the cold white glow spill across the floor.
There was coffee in a pot. Yesterday's coffee, probably, but she didn't care. She grabbed a mug from the cabinet, poured the cold sludge into it, and shoved it in the microwave. The appliance beeped three times before she silenced it. The hum filled the kitchen like a heartbeat.
She needed sugar.
Roxy opened the cabinet above the coffee maker, standing on her tiptoes. The light from the fridge carved shadows across the room—long, distorted shapes that shifted with every movement she made. She found the sugar bowl, pulled it down, poured two heaping spoonfuls into her mug.
Then she saw the gun.
It was on the top shelf, pushed back behind a stack of bowls. Small. Black. Unassuming. Just sitting there like it belonged among the spices and the protein bars and whatever else rich people kept in their kitchens. Roxy's fingers found it before her brain caught up. The metal was cold. Heavy. Familiar.
She'd grown up around guns. Her uncle had a farm in upstate New York—three hundred acres of nothing, miles from the nearest town. He'd taught her to shoot when she was eight, taught her to field dress a deer when she was ten, taught her that the only thing standing between you and the world was your own two hands and the willingness to use them.
The farm was where she'd learned to listen to her instincts. And right now, her instincts were screaming.
Something was wrong.
She felt it before she understood it. A prickle at the back of her neck. A stillness in the air that didn't belong. The kind of electricity that built up right before a thunderstorm, when the sky turned green and the animals went quiet and every hair on your body stood on end.
She wasn't alone.
Roxy set the sugar bowl down. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers wrapped around the gun, and she tucked it against her thigh, hidden by the darkness and the drape of her dress.
The microwave beeped.
She retrieved her coffee and took a sip. The liquid was lukewarm and bitter, but she made herself drink it. Made herself stand there, calm and casual, like she didn't have a gun in one hand and a scream locked in her throat.
There were two of them.
She didn't know how she knew. Just like she'd known when the neighbor's dog was about to bite, or when her uncle was going to drink himself stupid on a Tuesday, or when the boy in the alley behind the diner had a knife in his pocket and murder in his eyes. Some people called it intuition. Her uncle called it the farm sense. Roxy called it the only thing that had ever kept her alive.
They were across the island. Near the far wall, where the shadows were thickest. She couldn't see them, but she could feel them—two separate shapes in the darkness, two sets of eyes watching her every move.
She set her coffee down. Grabbed the sugar bowl. Fumbled with it like she was just a girl trying to fix her drink, just a nobody who'd wandered into the wrong kitchen at the wrong hour.
When she lifted the bowl, her fingers found the gun underneath. She palmed it in the darkness, the grip settling into her hand like it had been made for her. The safety clicked off.
She could do this with her eyes closed. She had done it with her eyes closed—shot cans off a fence post at midnight, hit a coyote in the dark, killed a man on a Tuesday afternoon when he came at her brother with a pipe.
She turned.
The coffee mug was in one hand. The gun was in the other, held low against her thigh. She faced the island, faced the darkness where they were hiding, and took a sip of her coffee like she didn't have a single care in the world.
A shape moved.
She fired twice.
The sound was deafening in the small kitchen. Two muffled thumps followed—bodies hitting the floor, one right after the other. She fired two more shots. Double tapped. Just like her uncle taught her.
The silence that followed was heavier than blood.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor. A door slammed. She heard his voice before she saw him—Damien, shouting her name, his tone a mix of fury and something that might have been fear. He burst through the kitchen door with a gun in his hand and his eyes wild.
And then he stopped.
She was standing in the middle of the kitchen with her coffee mug in one hand and his gun in the other. Her dress was hiked up from where she'd been standing on tiptoes. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her bare feet were planted wide, steady as a soldier's.
Two bodies lay crumpled on the floor behind her.
Damien stared. At the bodies. At her. At the gun in her hand, the one he'd hidden on the top shelf, the one he probably thought she'd never find.
"Your welcome," she said.
She took another sip of coffee.
Damien didn't move.
His gun was still raised, his finger still on the trigger, but his eyes—his eyes were fixed on her like she was something he'd never seen before. Something he couldn't quite believe.
"You—" He stopped. Swallowed. Lowered his weapon. "You just killed two men."
"Technically, I killed two intruders. Men is a strong word." She set the coffee mug down and turned to survey the bodies. One was face-down, a dark stain spreading beneath him. The other was on his back, eyes open, a neat hole in the center of his chest. "These assholes broke into your house. In the dark. While you were asleep."
"How do you know they were intruders?"
"Because they weren't you." She turned back to face him. "And because nobody who belongs here would hide in the kitchen at five in the morning and watch a woman make coffee."
Damien's jaw tightened. He walked toward her, stepping over the bodies without a glance. When he reached her, his hand found her chin, tilted her face up, examined her with those cold blue eyes.
"You're not hurt."
"No."
"You're not shaking."
"Adrenaline." She shrugged. "I'll crash later."
He let go of her chin. His hand dropped to the necklace around her throat, and he traced the phoenix with his finger—slow, deliberate, like he was checking that it was still there.
"Who taught you to shoot?"
"My uncle. On the farm." She caught his wrist. "I told you about the farm. In the study. Before you fucked me against your desk."
"I remember." His voice was low. "I thought you were lying."
"I was. About most of it." She let go of his wrist. "The farm was true."
Damien looked at her for a long moment. Then he looked at the bodies. Then he looked back at her.
"Marco," he called.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Marco appeared in the doorway, his shirt half-buttoned, his hair disheveled. He took one look at the scene and his face went pale.
"Boss—"
"Clean this up."
"Who—"
"That's not your concern." Damien's voice was ice. "Find out who they are. Find out who sent them. I want names by noon."
Marco nodded. Turned. Disappeared.
Damien looked at Roxy. Something shifted in his expression—something that looked almost like respect. Or hunger. Or both.
"You've changed my mind about you."
"Have I?"
"I thought you were a liability. Someone I'd have to protect, watch, manage." He stepped closer. "But you're not. You're an asset. A dangerous one."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation."
Roxy laughed. It came out sharp and hollow in the dark kitchen. "You're welcome, by the way. For saving your life. For protecting your house. For not being dead when you walked in here."
"Thank you."
The words seemed to cost him something. She saw it in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes flickered. Men like Damien Moretti didn't say thank you. They didn't need to. People just did things for them, and the doing was enough.
"You're still going to make me work for you," she said.
"I'm still going to make you work for me." He reached out, touched the necklace again. "But maybe I'll give you a better gun."
"I want a Beretta. Nine millimeter. Something with stopping power."
"I'll see what I can do."
He turned and walked out of the kitchen. Just like that. Like she hadn't just killed two men in his house, like the bodies weren't still bleeding on his floor, like this was just another Tuesday in the life of Damien Moretti.
Roxy looked down at her hands. They were steady. No shaking. No regret.
She picked up her coffee and took another sip.
The sun was rising outside—she could see it now, the first pale streaks of light bleeding through the curtains in the living room beyond. A new day. Her first official day working for the Moretti family.
She set the mug down and walked out of the kitchen.
There was blood on the marble, smeared where her feet had been. She left it there. Marco could clean it up. That's what he was paid for.
When she got back to her room, she closed the door and locked it. She took off the necklace—the phoenix, his mark, his claim—and laid it on the dresser beside the velvet box.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she put it back on.
She didn't know why. Maybe because it was beautiful. Maybe because he'd given it to her. Maybe because, for the first time in her life, she felt like she belonged to something—even if that something was a man who might destroy her, a family that ran on blood and fear, a world that had no place for someone like her.
She climbed back into bed. The sheets were cold and rumpled. The alarm clock said 5:58.
She closed her eyes and didn't sleep.
At six-thirty, someone knocked on her door.
Roxy sat up. Her hand found the gun under her pillow—she'd brought it with her from the kitchen, tucked into the waistband of her dress, and she hadn't let it go since. She didn't answer. Just waited, silent, as the knock came again. Vega." A woman's voice. Not Valentina. Younger. Nervous. "Mr. Moretti sent me. He wants you downstairs for breakfast."
"Tell him I'm not hungry."
A pause. Then: "He said to tell you it's not optional."
Roxy closed her eyes. Counted to ten. Then she got up, pulled the dress back on, and opened the door.
The woman standing there was small and blonde and looked like she'd rather be anywhere else. She handed Roxy a garment bag without meeting her eyes.
"He also said to give you this."
Roxy took the bag. Zipped it open. Inside was a black pantsuit—tailored, sharp, expensive. The kind of thing a woman wore when she wanted to be taken seriously.
There was a note tucked into the pocket.
Wear this. There's blood on the dress.
It wasn't signed. It didn't need to be.
Roxy looked at the woman. The woman looked at the floor.
"Tell him I'll be down in twenty minutes."
She shut the door.
Twenty minutes later, she walked into the dining hall.
The bodies were gone. The blood was gone. The shattered coffee cups had been swept away, and the table was set for three—Valentina at the head, Damien to her right, an empty chair to her left.
Valentina looked up. She was wearing white today, something silk and flowing, and her smile was just as cold as it had been last night. Vega," she said. "I hear you had an eventful morning."
Roxy sat. "I had coffee."
"So I heard." Valentina lifted her own cup. "Two shots to the chest. Double tapped. My, my."
"I don't miss."
"No. You don't." Valentina's eyes flicked to Damien, who was reading his tablet like nothing had happened. "She's full of surprises, your new pet."
"She's not a pet."
"She's something." Valentina set her cup down. "The question is what."
The door behind Roxy opened. Marco walked in, crossed to Damien's side, and leaned down to whisper something in his ear.
Damien's expression didn't change. But his eyes—those cold blue eyes—flickered to Roxy for just a moment. Then back to his tablet.
"Interesting," he said.
"What is?" Roxy asked.
He didn't answer.
Valentina smiled.
And Roxy realized, with a sick lurch in her gut, that Valentina hadn't been lying at all.
The game had already started.