Page 20 of Stealing Cinder

Valerian exhales through his nose and settles deeper into his chair. “Good. Without her here, we can get this signed and get out before she returns. My last encounter with her left a sour taste in my mouth.”

“Then let’s get this done quickly.” I could be on a flight to Italy by morning. Sun on my face, a glass of something worth drinking in hand, the sound of water washing away all the heartache.

Maybe I'll find peace in the quiet. Maybe the distance will shake this woman from the marrow of my bones where she's settled in and refused to leave.

Or maybe I'll spend another month pacing a different set of rooms in a different country, running through the memory of pale blue eyes and the scent of warm vanilla until I'm half-mad with it.

Maybe I should just leave. Not Italy. All of it. Walk away from the territory, the empire, the politics and the blood. If I can't get this man to sign a piece of paper that benefits his own survival, what am I really doing? I am so damn tired of fighting with men who can't see reason when it's for their own good.

I set my cards face down on the mahogany. Lean back. The leather is cold and rigid against my spine.

Oliver catches my eye across the table. He's reading me the way he always does, patient and too perceptive for his own damn good. He lifts his glass an inch off the table with a silent question arrowed at me. You good?

I nod once. He accepts it. Because that's what brothers do.

Bastian gathers the deck and starts shuffling for the next hand. The snap of cards fills the silence. Valerian lights a fresh cigar and the flame flickers across the scarred landscape of his hand before he shakes it out.

Beyond the pocket doors, heavy footsteps approach. Edgar.

Fuck me. This man likes to posture.

I straighten in my chair and roll my shoulders once. The briefcase at my feet holds the contract. Five signatures will keep the peace. Four of them are already dry. One more and I can stop carrying this weight and be done with all the worry for a while.

One more, and then what?

I go home to an empty mansion. Heated concrete floors and silence so deep the click of my phone screen bounces off the walls. I feed my sourdough starter at six in the morning because it's the only living thing in my house that needs me. I run my territory with the same efficiency I've used for two decades, making money I don't spend, building power that insulates me from everything except the one thing I actually want.

Her.

The footsteps grow louder. Closer.

Truth be told, I'm tired. Period.

CHAPTER 6

CINDER

The wig itches.

Cheap synthetic fibers scratch at my scalp where I pinned my real hair flat beneath a dark brunette bob that hangs just past my jaw. Five months of planning, of late nights poring over catering company schedules and staff rosters, and the thing that might unravel me is a thirty-dollar wig from a costume shop on Michigan Avenue.

I tuck a strand behind my ear and adjust the tray of crystal tumblers on the stainless steel counter. The industrial kitchen in my father's mansion hums with activity around me. Catering staff in matching uniforms weave between prep stations, balancing trays of finger foods that look expensive and taste like cardboard. I know because I sampled one earlier and nearly spit it into the trash.

My father used to cook in this kitchen. Real food. He hired help, sure. But he was in here with his sleeves rolled up minutes before guests were set to arrive just to make sure everything was good. He would greet everyone while wearing an apron and he didn’t give a lick about how that made him look. The warmth of those memories slams into me every time I round a corner in this house, but the smell of Edgar's cigars baked into every surface smothers them before they can settle. Francesca's cloying perfume clings to the air like a toxic fog on top of it.

I press my palm flat against the cool metal counter and force my breathing steady.

Focus.

The catering company Edgar hired for tonight's poker game staffs exclusively with young women in outfits designed to make men stare and feel powerful. My uniform is a short black skirt that barely covers my ass, fishnet stockings, and a halter top cut low enough to leave nothing to the imagination. The fishnets match the fall theme, according to the manager. I wanted to ask whose theme involves objectifying the staff, but I kept my mouth shut and took the assignment.

And then I added a scarf to hang around my neck in a fashionable way that hides more of me.

I've endured worse indignities since my father died. Sleeping on Lavender's couch for two weeks before I found a short-term lease no one knows about. I shuttered my shop to keep a low profile while building my case against Edgar and my stepmother piece by piece. Two months ago, I spotted the detective I trusted sitting across from Edgar at a candlelit dinner. The two of them laughing, clinking glasses, while my father's murder file gathered dust on the detective's desk. That was the last clue I needed.

My hand drifts to my stomach, a habit I can't break. Beneath the halter top and the apron tied high around my waist, the small curve of my belly presses against the fabric. Five months along and my bump is getting harder to hide. The apron hides what the clothes can't, but time is running out on that trick. Another few weeks and no amount of layering will keep my secret.

I load the tray with fresh bottles of whiskey, the expensive kind Edgar serves to impress men he wants to manipulate. Crystal decanters line the counter beside me, freshly polished, catching the overhead fluorescent light in sharp glints. My fingers are steady as I arrange the glasses. My pulse is steady, too. I've been rehearsing this night for three months, running through every step, every hallway, every creaking floorboard I need to avoid.