Page 20 of From Rome, With Hate

I wait ten seconds. Then another. No response. The little check marks in the corner of my message don’t even fill in.

“Fucking hell, Lark.” I groan before leaving my office in a hurry.

Fine. I guess we’re doing this the hard way.

SIX

JULIANNA

“Excuse me?” I raise my finger in the air, trying to flag down the bartender for the hundredth time. My martini glass is bone dry, and my throat is screaming for a refill.

I stamp my heel against the floor, wedging myself further into the line of guests waiting for their refills, too. Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to come here again?

The club is packed, and if it weren’t for the three drinks already swimming on my otherwise empty stomach, I’d probably be deep in regret. But I’m not. All I can picture is Selene cradling my beautiful nephew. And him. Him and his stupid face. His stupid face and his stupid neck, covered in thick, black bird wings. I wonder how many times he’s considered having that tattoo removed, if at all. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.

Resisting the urge to pull out my phone and tell him I think he should get it removed, I remind myself how bad of an idea it is to talk to him when I’m drunk. Bad things happen when I talk to Rome Montgomery under the influence. I say things I normally keep under lock and key.

I’ve kept my phone snuggly tucked into my purse all night, ignoring all the haunting thoughts threatening to creep in.

When the bartender happens to turn around to fill a glass with ice, my arm shoots in the air again, and I almost punch the man beside me.

“Please,” I beg shamelessly, shouting over the pulsating music. “Another martini, please?”

The bartender gives me a nod, finally acknowledging me. I sag with relief but not without receiving a scowl from the man I nearly smacked.

“Sorry,” I mutter, wincing.

He narrows his gaze before shaking his head and turning away from me.

Great.

I brush off his coldness and sigh with relief again when the bartender finally returns with my drink. I slip him a fifty-dollar bill, not caring how much I’m overpaying for every single drink I’ve had. Taking a sip, I spin around and turn my back on the man who gave me a scowl.

Nearly choking on my martini, I find myself staring at another man with a firm frown.

“Enjoying yourself, Lark?”

I shoot him as many silent daggers as possible. “Not anymore.”

He’s resting his elbow on the edge of the bar, with his signature crooked smile in place. Of course, he would fucking be here, taunting me, haunting me.

Wearing an all-black suit, his shirt is buttoned all the way to the top, with a tie wrapped firmly around his neck. I may hate Rome, but it’s hard to deny how gorgeous he is. I hate the way my body betrays me every time I look at him. For a fraction of a second, my heart leaps at the sight of him, but before it takes hold, I remember all the reasons I despise him.

“How many does that make it?” he asks, eyes darting to the drink in my hand.

“No,” I state with my whole chest, turning away from him to look at the crowd.

“I think you misheard my question. The answer I’m looking for is a number.”

“I meantno,” I tell him, plainly. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what?”

I snap my head back to the left, and my gaze drops to his mouth before I force it back up. I’m too drunk to be talking to Rome. This isn’t safe. I wave my free hand in front of him. “This. You.”

He leans forward, leveling his piercing eyes with mine. “I’m here to cash in my debt, Lark.”

I laugh. It bursts out of me like a fucking dam. A few people surrounding us turn their heads in our direction. Rome pulls back, his firm brows pulling together again. Pressing my hand to my chest, I force myself to catch my breath, noticing how the alcohol is starting to take control.