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It’s not like Lucas hasn’t seen me kiss his twin before. I kissed both of them in the kitchen a few nights ago, pinned between their bodies in a way that lit my skin on fire. Once, when we were younger, we did much more than that. I’m pretty sure they know I fucked Hale, and maybe they know I’ve kissed Ciro too.
That’s another thing contributing to the riot of confusion swirling inside my chest.
I have feelings for all four of the men who captured me. And they all know it.
“You look incredible, princess.”
Lucas’s face, so similar to his twin’s, splits into a wide grin as Zaid and I separate. They both have bright green eyes, blond hair, and infectious smiles. Individually, they’re almost impossible to resist, but when they combine their charm, they’re absolutely devastating.
“Doesn’t she?” Zaid’s voice is filled with so much pride it almost hurts. “She looks like a fuckin’ queen.”
“Are you ready?” Lucas asks, dragging his gaze away from the dress and up to my face.
I try to nod, but the simple action seems to be lost in the stiffening of my body. It’s echoed in the nervous buzz of energy that blankets us, reminding me of what tonight is actually about. I know I’m not the only one who’s dreading this. As little as I want to face Hale’s father, I can tell by the twins’ stiff postures that they don’t want to put me in front of the wolf either.
“Everything will be okay, Grace,” Lucas promises, his face softening.
I want to believe them both. I do. I desperately want to let go and trust them. Feel safe.
“Let’s go,” I say, pushing away from them and striding toward the door. “I’d like to get this over with.”
Just as I’d like to believe them.
But I’m not sure I can.
3
Grace
None of us speak much on the drive over.
Hale and Ciro murmur a few words to each other in the front, and Zaid and Lucas each rest a hand on one of my knees, the gesture protective and possessive.
When we pull to a stop, we’re in a dark alleyway, muddy and dank from last night’s rain. It’s early evening, and the city is alive around us, illuminated by the setting sun and the lights of high-rise buildings that tower overhead.
I know enough about mafia business to know that we’re not meeting Damian in a trash filled alleyway, so it doesn’t surprise me when Hale leads us to a seemingly unimportant metal door set in the side of the large brick building, opening it up with a key he pulls from his pocket.
As we step inside, a faint pulse of music crawls over my skin, and I get an inkling of where we might be. The Onyx Cocktail Club is an upscale Chicago nightclub on the surface, but behind the scenes, it serves as a base of operations for the Novak Syndicate. The last time I was here was when my father proudly introduced me to the man he once called his boss.
Damian Novak.
Hale leads us down a hallway, and the music becomes more and more muted until it’s disappeared entirely, replaced by our quiet footsteps. Our surroundings are dimly lit and luxurious: stained cherry wood accents, expensive carpets, and sconces on the walls that illuminate the space with warm, low light. I know the front of the club is no less beautiful. There’s a reason why this place is popular amongst the wealthy and elite—it makes its clientele feel sophisticated and important, somehow above common society.
When the heavy mahogany door that I know leads to Damian’s office comes into view, my nerves spike. Because behind that door lies my fate, and whether I’m innocent or guilty has little bearing on how things will play out. My life is entirely in Damian’s control. Whatever he decides to do with me, his word is the final word.
Softer than a butterfly, a hand brushes against mine, startling me out of my panic. The tips of Ciro’s fingers curl against my palm for only a second before they’re gone. Though the touch is fleeting, it brings everything back into focus.
My heart squeezes a little.
Ciro doesn’t like to be touched. The scars of his past have made him shut himself off from the rest of the world, transforming the quiet, somewhat shy boy I once knew into an eerily blank man.
He’s not blank, though. There’s so much more inside him than he admits or even realizes.
And this is the second time he’s reached out to comfort me in the past few days.
I send him a silent thank you as the door opens and we step into Damian’s office.
The room is as luxurious as the rest of this place, but there’s something cold about it, almost like a mausoleum. I half expect to find shelves of bodies lining the walls, but all I find is the king of the Novak Syndicate, as Zaid called him, sitting behind a large desk in a wingback chair.
