Otherwise, I can’t confirm anything for them.
And if I can’t confirm it, I might’ve just blown the entire plan.
Roran
Ican’t believe this is where I ended up. Not at my sister’s side, but walking into another damn crime family.Perfect!
I take the last step down the shadowed staircase and stop in front of a thick black door.
Torture room?
Wouldn’t surprise me.
My idiot uncle used to mock these “‘Italians’ underground chambers” like they were nothing compared to his.
Funny—those might’ve been what killed him in the end.
Ironic.
I clench my fists, trying to steady my breath. The heavy wedding dress is suffocating. The cold ceramic tiles bite into my bare feet.
I’m not dying in this ridiculous costume—not today. I won’t be marked as Ivan’s bride even at my death.
Maleciandro steps forward, unlocking this door too with a fingerprint scan like it’s nothing. Doesn’t even glance my way. Like he already knows there’s no point in watching me—I’m not escaping.
Not here.
Not now.
He radiates danger in every form, but it’s not like my father’s…
Maleciandro is calm. Solid. Built like he was trained to kill since his first breath, but he’s not flaunting it. There’s no swagger, no ‘fear me’ posture.
He doesn’t need to show off. He justis.
Which honestly? Makes it worse. Those are the ones I need to fear the most, but—
“Get in,” he commands, voice clipped.
I hadn’t realized I’d stopped moving, just standing there, staring at him. I bite the tip of my tongue and force myself forward.
The door clicks behind us, and lights flicker on overhead. I suck in a breath as the room comes into view.
It’s massive.
The ceiling stretches so high it makes me feel smaller than I already do standing next to him.
And I’m considered tall. That’s saying something.
Gym equipment lines the walls, a long sparring mat stretches across the floor.
Solas once tried to open a sparring rink in one of my father’s smaller pubs. Said he wanted to make something “fresh” underground.
Fresh. Right.
Like underground street fights didn’t exist long before he was even born.
That bastard used to hit me and my sister harder than anyone else. He loved violence—craved it. Dirtying his hands was probably his favorite pastime.
