Page 131 of Black Reign

His Italian.

The obscene knowledge of art, finance, wine, politics, architecture.

The old-world references.

The expensive cuff that appeared in one photograph.

The hand.

The stomach.

The contempt for inherited wealth that I mistook for the bitterness of someone excluded from it.

Maybe Xavier hated inherited privilege because he lived inside it.

Maybe he knew exactly what it cost.

I feel sick.

Ghost isn't some scholarship boy from northern Italy.

He isn't a self-made hacker with a mama making pasta in a stone kitchen.

He is Xavier Blackwell.

Heir to Blackwell Inc.

The man whose company I've been penetrating for years.

The man whose systems I have damaged.

The man whose secrets I have stolen.

The man assigned to find whoever keeps slipping through his network.

Me.

My enemy.

My hunter.

And the only man I have trusted since Papa died.

My breath shakes.

I lower the tray before anyone notices my hands.

No.

This cannot be happening.

I think about every conversation.

Every confession.

Every night I stayed inside NULL because Ghost was the only person who could make loneliness feel temporary.

Every flirtation.