I don't know how I'm supposed to get in touch with Lucius when we never exchanged contact information in the first place. It was a miscalculation on my part, since I didn't think Alessandro would encourage me to roll in the sheets with Lucius so early on in the plan.
I guess I could just reach out to his office and request his contact information. It's a little too direct for my style, but he'd probably answer.
As I'm thinking this, my family phone buzzes on my desk. When I pick it up, my eyes narrow instinctively.
The number is unknown, which shouldn't be possible—this line is for Marchesis, and Alessandro's tech team keeps it safe from any interception. Not to mention, Rocco checks the messages every day to ensure everything is in order, and I haven't overstepped.
No one should be able to send texts to it.
The screen lights up, bright in my dim room.
Dinner. Eight. Wear my diamonds.
No address or name… because he knows I'll understand who it is.
My mouth goes dry, and a chill runs down my spine. I didn't give him this number, and he easily could have found the contact for my personal phone—but he found a way to message me through the family phone.
Is he trying to make a point? Show off the amount of power he wields?
There's a steady knock at the door that halts my thoughts, and Rocco's voice follows it. "Report at noon," he says, and probably due to how conflicted I feel, his words feel like an accusation.
"Fine," I answer. I slide the phone into the drawer, where I usually keep the family phone, and shut it.
He steps in, takes in the room, and glances at the glitter of the diamonds hanging from my ears. The pieces are heavier than last night's, showier, a bold fashion choice I usually wouldn't make. His brow twitches slightly. It's a nearly imperceptible shift in his expression, but I spot it easily.
"Where did those come from?" he asks, his voice low—more curiosity than order.
"I found them," I say, which is true. "Left on the vanity."
He doesn't push; he never pushes me more than he must. Instead, he says, "You shouldn't accept gifts that aren't cleared."
"I trust you more than anyone, but you know that I won't listen to you anymore, right?" I cock a brow at him. I don't mean it rudely, but lately it feels he may have forgotten that the benefits of being a true confidant were erased with my parents' death. "You can't act as my conscience."
"I understand." He gives a look I haven't seen in years—one that's nostalgic and thoughtful. "I'm not your conscience. I'm your guard."
"I know that," I say. "Which is why you'll drive me tonight."
"One—" He pauses, then corrects himself. "Two steps behind."
I nod, "If you cross the line again, I'll make it three."
He nods once, the motion of a man filing an order he doesn't like, and leaves me alone.
—
The Ravelle Tower receives me like a valuable, anonymous guest; quietly, with no cameras and no overwhelming greeters. I'm led to a private entrance, then a discreet lift… Lucius has already stripped the spectacle from this evening, leaving only one thing to be considered: the two of us.
He's waiting for me when the doors open up. I suck in a breath as I take in the sight; his sleeves are rolled up, his collar undone, and he doesn't even try to hide the hungry look in his eyes.
Naturally, his gaze slides first to my ears. Satisfaction flickers across his face, then he looks at me, properly—the hint of something devious in his smirk.
"You wore them," he states simply.
"I didn't want you to feel unappreciated," I answer dryly. He doesn't laugh, but he exhales lazily and inclines his head to inspect me further.
Rocco stands by the shadowed doorway, unmoving. Lucius glances back at him and seems to register him as a functional entity, rather than a person. He doesn't bother to hide the faint, amused contempt that follows the dismissal.
"Stay," I tell Rocco in a whisper. He pauses and leaves with a single, unspoken order: eyes out, ears open.
Lucius offers his hand. Not a courtly gesture, it feels more demanding than anything, but I take it anyway.
The private dining room is a study in restraint: a single chandelier, an intimate table set for two, and only one person around to serve. Lucius seats me, fills my glass, and when he finally sits across from me, he leans back like a man who's winning a gamble.
"This isn't business," I say.
"No," he agrees. "It's personal."
Personal… It's a dangerous word. "'Personal' matters get people killed," I say.
"Sometimes," he murmurs. "Sometimes they're intimate."
He watches me the way he watched me on the rooftop—curious and patient. His gaze slowly falls down my form until it lands on my ribcage. His mouth softens when he looks at it, and the tenderness in his eyes is the most dangerous thing I've seen.
"What do you want?" I ask, the bluntness in my tone a shield.
He leans forward, fingers steepled. "I just like it when you wear things you've received from me. You only need to remember who gave them to you."
"Memorize my jewelry and my debts," I answer. "That's all you want?"
He smiles, slowly, and tilts his head to the side. "I want your undivided attention, to stare into your beautifully murderous gaze, and to watch your lips move whenever you speak,"—here he pauses, seemingly considering his following words carefully—"I want to be the man who values a gem even before it's refined."
"That's… poetic, in a very villainous way," I say, unsure how to swallow his strange admission. I feel like there's even more meaning behind his words, but I don't know him well enough to understand yet.
…Yet? I'm going to kill him, I don't need to get to know him—
Suddenly, he reaches across the table, and his fingers brush mine—unabashed and confident. His skin is warm, sending goosebumps up my arms, and making me glad I wore long sleeves tonight. I would be so fucking embarrassed if he saw my body's reactions to his.
"Do you like the way they look?" he asks softly.
They glint like small stars. Honestly, I do think they're beautiful. It's a nice change of pace to wear something that captures attention rather than helps me hide in the shadows, but I feel foolish admitting that. I settle with, "They're… loud."
"They'll make people listen," he says. "Even though you're already the most captivating thing I've ever seen."
I smile at him. "I'll wear them where you can see."
He slowly retracts his hand and serves another self-satisfied smirk. "Good."
As dinner proceeds, Lucius doesn't eat, nor does he touch the wine. He only watches me, which is worse than being interrogated. The main dish and the dessert both happened to be my favorite foods, so I find myself indulging more than I usually would.
After several minutes of pure silence, he reaches into his jacket. The motion makes my heart lurch, all of my training kicking in, because I'm bracing for a weapon.
Is he going to shoot at me? Pull out a knife?
…But what he places on the table is nothing so violent.
It's a phone, and it looks brand new. There aren't any scratches on it.
"Use this," he says, tapping the screen awake. "It has everything you need on it."
I glance down and see that the screen glows with a single contact already saved.
I frown. "You can't be serious."
He smiles, his gaze dissecting me. "You don't like the gift?"
"I can always just give you my personal number," I say, my voice flat. "This is paranoid."
"It's cautious," he corrects smoothly. "If I wanted your personal contact, I'd have it already. Now, you can answer this when I call, free of prying eyes." Lucius glances in Rocco's direction briefly, a condescending lilt in his voice, "It's a phone your watchdog can't read, and it isn't a device your uncle's men think they control."
Uncle. He doesn't seem to know Alessandro's name; he doesn't know who sits at the head of the table. He thinks he's talking about the puppet's second, Henri, the one the city believes is pulling strings now. That's fine. Better, even. I'm relieved that he doesn't know all of our secrets.
…But the way he dismisses Rocco as my "watchdog" makes me bristle. He doesn't know everything, but he knows enough.
"And if I don't answer?" I ask, sliding the phone toward me with two fingers like it's contagious.
Lucius leans back, slow, precise, his steel-blue gaze freezing me in place. "Then I'll know exactly what it means when you do."
The words weigh on my chest. His threat is obvious, but at the same time, this seems like a plea for my attention.
I should definitely refuse. I should push the phone back across the table and tell him to piss off. Instead, I tuck it into my clutch and snap the clasp shut, securing the device with me where I know no one will try to take it from me.
Lucius's mouth curves slightly in recognition.
—
The dinner ends without dessert. He offers his hand again, leading me from the table with a very fake gentlemanly demeanor. Rocco's shadow is waiting in the hall, and Lucius spares him the kind of glance you'd give a doorman.
At the elevator, he leans close, brushing his lips to my cheek in a way that makes Rocco stiffen behind me. His mouth hovers by my ear just long enough to whisper:
"Answer when it rings."
He steps back, and the doors close, separating us for the evening. The ride down is silent except for the thud of my pulse in my own ears.
It's only once I'm in the car that I notice something wrong. My hair is loose—it was tied into a loose braid when I arrived. I reach up to figure out what's wrong and find nothing holding it anymore.
The dagger-shaped pin I'd used to coil my braid is gone.
I whip my head back toward the tower windows, catching only my reflection in the glass. My lips part in disbelief, but the truth is obvious: he took it. Somehow, during the brush of his lips against my cheek or the press of his fingers at my shoulder, he stole it from me.
"Problem?" Rocco asks from the driver's seat, eyes flicking to mine in the rearview mirror.
I force a thin smile, shoving the panic down, burying the thrill deeper. "No problem."
He looks at me for a long moment, his gaze discerning. He may not say it, but he noticed too, I'm sure, but there's no way in hell I'm going to admit that this audacious Ravelle has stolen from me, not just once, but twice!
I take a deep breath and rest my hand over the place where I hid the new phone, and it buzzes beneath my fingertips. My brows furrow in surprise, but I choose to shift in my seat and lean toward the window.
I don't need Rocco on my ass about the phone—it's going to have to be my little secret… well, one of my little secrets. I'm getting more of them each day.
I lean my head against the car window and stare out into the city. What the hell have I gotten myself into?! And what could he possibly have to text me about that requires an entirely separate phone?