I'm lucky that Rocco is a man of few words, because I know he'd be drilling my dumbass with questions if not. I basically sprint away from the car, and the first thing I do when I get back to the villa is lock my bedroom door.
The second thing I do is pull the black phone from my purse and place it on my vanity, then take a few steps back. It feels like a trap… and it may as well be, I guess.
It's slim, brand-new, seemingly completely untouched except for the single contact saved in it. Lucius Ravelle.
I really shouldn't have brought it home, I know it's a dumb fucking mistake. Our families have been at war for decades, and I'm inviting trouble into our home by doing this.
Alessandro wants me to get in his pants and gather intel, but he doesn't want me to give away our information in the process. This device is a liability.
…But I can't make myself throw it away.
I pick it back up and get used to its weight in my hand. It feels heavier than it is, probably due to my guilty conscience. It's not just a phone, it's a bridge over the line carved between his world and mine—a line that shouldn't be crossed.
I tell myself I won't use it, but my hand hovers over the screen anyway. I tap the screen, and it awakens, revealing three text notifications, all from Lucius. Just one press, and he'll know I've fallen entirely into his trap. I hesitate, my thumb grazing the edge—and the phone buzzes.
I flinch back like I've been burned. Another text?! It's midnight!
[Still awake?]
I don't answer.
Thirty seconds later, another:
Of course you are.
My pulse thunders in my throat, and I glare at the phone, waiting for the next one, and he doesn't make me wait long.
[What color?]
I blink. "What?" I mutter under my breath—but I still haven't answered.
Another buzz.
[Your dress. Tell me the color.]
I grit my teeth and finally type: [You saw my dress.]
A pause. Then his reply:
[I know what I saw. I want to know what you'll tell me.]
I throw myself back in the chair, huffing. God, he's impossible. I type, [Black.]
The three typing-indicator dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.
Finally: [Good.]
Before I can respond, another message drops in. It's… a sticker.
A bright, pink cartoon cat giving a thumbs-up.
My jaw drops. Of all the things I expected from Lucius Ravelle, suave god-king of businessmen and untouchable syndicates, cutesy stickers were not one of them.
Another buzz: [What's your favorite color?]
[Why?] I send back, exasperated.
[Because I'll ruin it for you if it's mine.] He replies and then, like a punchline: a blushing bunny sticker, holding out a heart.
I cover my face with both hands. This man fucks over the poor for a living, kills people for breathing in a way that inconveniences him, and apparently uses cartoon animals to punctuate threats.
The phone buzzes again. [Don't ignore me.] And again. [I can always call.]
I click my tongue and answer, [Green.]
His answers are instant. [I like it when you tell the truth.]
[Maybe I'm lying.] I type, before I can stop myself. I didn't lie, green is my favorite color—but there's no way he could know that.
[You're not.] His answer is clipped, casual.
Where does he find such unfounded confidence? I scoff and roll my eyes, but another message pops up before I can even start typing. It reads:
[There's no reason to lie to me, anyway. I like straightforward women.]
Clearly, he doesn't, otherwise he wouldn't be flirting with someone who tried to kill him a week ago.
Suddenly, he adds: [And assassins.]
I blink, my stomach tying itself into a knot, and then—buzz.
A sticker. A smiling cartoon fox giving finger guns.
I stare at it for a full ten seconds, then drop my head into my hands. He just acknowledged that I want to kill him and then sent a fucking sticker about it.
Maybe I'm out of my depth, after all.
This man is completely insane.
I type back: [You're not normal.]
[No.] He replies. [I'm yours.]
My pulse stutters. He sent that without hesitation, and there's not even a hint of irony in the message. It's just a fact, like he was only telling me the weather. I'm starting to feel overwhelmed by him—accepting this phone wasn't just walking into a trap, it was a ticket straight to my demise.
I type: [I'm sleeping. Goodnight.]
I toss the phone into the drawer and slam it shut like that can keep him out of my head. I take a few deep breaths before I strip myself out of my gown and collapse into bed. I need to get some rest and clear my mind, because if I let myself keep getting so flustered and confused, I'm going to get myself killed.
———
I'm going to get myself killed.
That thought follows me down into sleep like a curse.
The dream starts the same way it always does.
I'm younger, around fifteen. The scent of rain and iron hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the muffled sound of gunfire in the distance. I'm running barefoot down a corridor that seems to stretch longer with every step, glass from shattered windows and broken chandeliers littering the marble floor.
My mother's voice echoes behind me, hoarse and frantic—
Run, Lia. Run.
I can hear the sound of boots behind me, closing in. No matter how fast I run, they're gaining on me.
Usually, at this point in my nightmare, I end up being caught and tortured by my pursuers—just as it happened in reality. But, unlike how my dream usually pans out, there's a stark change this time.
At the end of the hall, the shadows shift, and he's standing there.
Lucius Ravelle.
He's at least a decade younger than how I know him now, probably around twenty years old. His hand lifts slowly, a silver lighter flickering to life, its glow casting a golden hue on his face. He's completely calm, far more composed than he should be given the chaos surrounding him.
He doesn't move toward me or try to intervene, only watches. His piercing blue eyes are cold and contemplative, but not malicious. He's looking at me like he's waiting for me to understand something I can't yet see.
"You don't belong here," he says.
And then the flame dies.
———
I wake with a start, breath catching, a trembling hand pressed hard against my chest. The room is silent, but for a moment, I swear I can still smell smoke.
My heart's pounding painfully against my ribcage, and my thoughts are crawling back to him.
I never met Lucius in person until my attempt on his life this week ago… at least, that's what I thought. The view of him in my dream just now was so vivid and realistic—I don't know if my imagination is creative enough to draw such a young version of him without ever seeing it.
I swallow hard and take a shaky breath, recalling the press of his lips on my hand, the weight of his diamonds on my earlobes, and the missing pin from my hair. It feels like he's infiltrating my entire life when I'm the one who's supposed to be plotting to kill him.
When I glance at my bedside clock, I see that only an hour has passed. It's half past one in the morning, now.
Buzz.
I roll over and see that the drawer is glowing faintly. My brows furrow. Has he been spamming me the whole time I've been trying to sleep? He has no fucking manners!
I can't help myself. I sit up in bed and move to the vanity, pulling the drawer open with shaking hands. However, to my surprise, when I pick up the phone, there's only a single message notification—and it's from just now. So, he hasn't been spamming me; he just somehow managed to text me at the exact moment I woke up.
A chill runs down my spine as I tap the message.
[Still thinking about me.]
He didn't even have the decency to phrase it as a question. No, like the domineering prick that he is, he sent the message as a statement. As if thinking of him is the only possible thing I could be doing at this hour.
And then, to twist the knife, he sends a sticker. This time, it's a blushing cat with stars for eyes.
I collapse back onto the bed with the phone in my hand.
What have I gotten myself into? What the fuck am I supposed to say? I'm only good at maintaining pretenses and playing a sociable role during business gatherings… I'm not actually good at being social. I hate having friends and maintaining normal relationships, so I have no idea how to deal with a blooming… somethingship with a sociopathic CEO.
Buzz.
[I'm thinking of you, too.]