Chapter Two

The private clinic smelled like rusted metal.

It was over quickly. It took away one mistake—and the last of my innocence.

I returned to my secret apartment downtown. My phone vibrated. Marco.

“Safe. Route’s clean.”

I replied: “Continue. Handle that batch of nineteenth-century silverware.”

Three days later, Luca came back. He carried the cold with him—and a velvet box.

“An apology.” He set it on the coffee table, sank into the sofa, rubbed at his brow, and studied me. There was fresh stubble on his jaw, bruised shadows under his eyes, but his stare was still hawk-sharp. “Won it off that old fox Leo—his prized Colombian emerald. For you.”

I opened the box. The stone was a deep, haunted green. The light in it was cold, and it made my skin crawl, as if it were sticky with something I didn’t want to name.

I closed the lid. “It’s valuable. Thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by my calm. “Not going to make a scene?”

“What’s the point?” I poured him whiskey and handed it over.

He took it; his fingers were cold. “Cecilia’s situation is handled. She doesn’t know her place—I disciplined her. She won’t bother you again.” He drank, paused, as if weighing his words. “About the baby… I’ve thought about it. Having it would’ve been fine. The Cosio family needs an heir. I would’ve arranged everything.”

“Mm.” I answered. My heart felt soaked in ice.

My obedience loosened him. He pulled me onto his lap, thumb stroking the back of my neck. His breath, heavy with alcohol, brushed my ear.

“That’s more like it. Those women out there—” he gave a snort, “they’re a diversion. You’re the mistress of the house, Elvira. Don’t lower yourself.”

His warmth felt foreign. Beneath it was a sweet, cloying perfume. I stayed rigid in his arms while, in my head, I calculated the silver’s market price and the laundering loss rate.

That night, Luca went out again.

Just as I was getting ready to sleep, an unfamiliar number called.

I knew who it was before I even answered.

“Mrs. Cosio?” A voice sweet and barbed. “This is Cecilia. At Nightfall, you might’ve only seen me from afar onstage.”

I walked to the window. “What do you want?”

“Oh, don’t be so cold. I’m calling to thank you.” She drew the words out. “Luca’s been… especially passionate with me lately. He said the one at home is very ‘well-behaved’—no noise, no drama, makes his life easier. Oh, and he said I’m a lot more fun than some beauties who lie there like a plank, and I know how to make him… happy.”

I said nothing.

“Angry?” Her laugh turned even sweeter. “Ma’am, you have the title, the riches. You have to pay a price, too—like… sharing a man? Though,” she lowered her voice, sticky with insinuation, “he seems to prefer sleeping here now. He says you’re a pretty piece of ice, and I… I can make him burn.”

“Are you done?” I asked.

She choked. “You—”

“Cecilia,” I cut in, calm, “your perfume—Viper, Midnight Temptation—three thousand euros a bottle. Milan silk robes, twelve thousand. A top-floor penthouse overlooking Central Park, fifty thousand a month. All of it paid for by Luca. Or rather, by Cosio money.”

On the other end, her breathing quickened.

“Do you know where that money comes from?” I went on, as if discussing the weather. “Casinos. Loan-sharking. Smuggling. Nightclubs. Every bill can have blood on it. Your heels might be bought with a father’s severed finger. Your fur might carry the souls from a migrant boat. He gives it to you because you can still please him. When you can’t—or when you get greedy and want more—”

“Are you trying to scare me?” Her voice went sharp.

“Honey is arsenic, too. He can lift you up, and he can smash you down.” I gave a soft laugh. “Do you think he’ll lick the poison off your lips for you? And as for whether I’m a plank… I’m sitting here because I can sit steady. You’re just a novelty in his collection. And novelties—people get tired of them. When he’s tired of you, where will you go? Into the bed of some perverted ‘partner’? Or to the bottom of the Hudson?”

Silence. Only rough, panicked breaths.

“Enjoy your honey, Miss Viper,” I said at last. “While he’s still feeding you.”

I hung up, opened the recording, clipped the parts where she bragged about Luca calling me “a plank,” about “making him happy,” about her taunts, and sent it through an encrypted channel to Elder Vincent.

My note was short: “Uncle Vincent, Luca has lost his head over the dancer at Nightfall. He’s speaking without restraint. I have little standing; I’m afraid he’ll be foolish, break the rules, and disgrace the family.”

Send.

I went to the mirror. My face was pale, but my eyes were bright—an ember burning deep down.

Luca, the game has begun.

And your little viper just handed me the first lethal blade.