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As I glanced around the elegant and silk-filled room, I knew I had found the ideal shop for her. Antique sofas and chaises scattered before a mirrored podium, and I watched Viktor’s reflection.
“I wondered if you would come,” Viktor cooed.
I didn’t find him funny and moved past him.
Davina’s head didn’t turn as I stood next to where she sat. Her fingers stilled on the catalog she held too tightly on her thighs. She slowly exhaled, and while her eyes didn’t lift, her head twitched in acknowledgment.
Without Ilias around, my presence always made her uncomfortable. At unease. I didn’t blame her; I was no different from the bastards who butchered her body. I too had men hunting her at one point.
I looked straight ahead, and our eyes met through our reflection.
“Why all the trouble? Why not just tell her you’ve booked the place and asked me to join?”
“Did you mention that?”
She huffed. “Of course not.”
“Good, thank you for coming.”
“You say it as if I had a choice.”
I chuckled. “True. And not that I owe you an answer, child, but unlike Ilias, I have no desire to make anyone believe I care.”
“Don’t you, Lucca? Care?”
I watched her head turn toward me in the mirror, felt her questioning gaze, and heard the doubt in her voice.
“No, I don’t,” I answered coldly, and caught her eyes. “Now, where is she?”
“You can search for her yourself.” Davina stood and left.
Fuck, perhaps spending time with Katia wasn't such a good idea.
I followed the path Davina’s eyes had suggested and walked deeper into the establishment. A woman, roughly in her early thirties stepped out with silent mumbles of annoyance as she closed the door behind her.
“I should have known.” Her fingers circled around her temples, and her strawberry-blonde hair fell against her cheeks.
“Should have known, what exactly?”
The lady, who I could guess was the owner, Maria, froze as her mouth opened wide in a silent gasp.
“Mr. Moretti!” she exclaimed as her eyes scanned my tattooed skin, and her feet carried her a step farther from me.
I raised my brow in question.
“Oh nothing, sir. It’s just been a…a day,” she stuttered.
“And I hope you are making my future bride hers.” I took away the distance she’d created.
“Of course, of course. We are so privileged for the Moretti name to wear our brand.”
Of that, I was sure. Money and greed often trumped the moral compass of those you would welcome.
“I’m glad we understand each other. Now if you could leave us alone.”
I had hardly spoken the last words before she was nowhere in sight and the white door stared at me. Katia’s name was printed in cursive on a delicate plaque.
I opened the door to a frustrated and irritable Italian woman.
