Page 24 of Marriage of Revenge

Winning the auction? Child's play. The real prize was watching my former stepfather's face every time I raised my hand, every time I drove that price higher. That familiar fucking sneer of his—I'm-above-this turning into I'll-end-you. He's tried. Failed. Multiple times. But that look when I casually dropped five million? Worth every penny.

Because he loves the money, but he hates that it comes from me.

The ballroom pulses with the kind of energy that usually ends in bloodshed. Music pounds through speakers worth more than most people's lives, while deals are made in shadows and alliances shift like quicksand. It reeks of wealth and desperation—cigar smoke hanging heavy in the air, mixed with the sharptang of sweat from men masking their nerves behind expensive cologne and custom suits. Laughter ricochets off the gilded walls, jagged and dangerous, like a predator’s growl before a kill. Even here, among seasoned killers, the tension is palpable, every joke a loaded gun waiting for the right moment to go off.

Two of the Colombian's men already got dragged out for trying to settle an old score—amateur hour. This isn't some back-alley brawl. This is where the real monsters come to play.

Henrik sidles up to me, wearing that smirk that’s practically begging to be carved off his face. My fingers itch for the knife tucked under my jacket, but I force myself to remember why his end needs to be slow, deliberate. This is the bastard who tried to force himself on Isabella years ago, who flooded my territory with tainted drugs, turning children into orphans and families into gravesites. The bastard who helped one of the Italian families burn down a safe compound, killing an older woman who reminded me too much of Mrs. Romano—the one person who made my mother’s transition into the Moretti life bearable.

The memory stings, more vivid than I’d like. Mrs. Romano’s warm smile, her hands that never stopped moving as she cooked meals that smelled like home. Together with my mother.

Henrik deserves to lose everything he holds dear, piece by piece, the same way he made my people suffer.

His eyes do a slow tour of the room before landing on Isabella—and the way he looks at her makes my blood sing for violence.

"You know," he drawls, "I've been thinking about how sweet it'll be when I finally break her. Make her scream. Make her beg. Maybe I'll even let her dance for me before I clip her wings. After all..." His eyes cut to me. "We both know she likes to perform for her family."

My knife finds his wrist before he finishes speaking, a lover's caress with steel. "Funny thing about thinking, Henrik," I murmur, letting him feel the bite of the blade. "It's hard to dowhen you're choking on your own blood. And trust me—if I opened your throat right here, right now? Half the room would thank me for the entertainment. The other half would only be disappointed they didn't get front row seats."

Henrik attempts to hold his ground, a smirk tugging at his lips, trying to show the world he’s not fazed. But I catch it—the almost imperceptible flicker of his eyes toward the hired security. It would be laughable, if it wasn't so pathetic.

In our world, hired muscle means little.

Allegiance? It's bought, bartered, and just as easily betrayed. Respect can be confused with intimidation.

Respect mixed with real loyalty? That’s the only currency that matters.

"Looking for an out, Henrik?" I press the knife deeper—not enough to draw blood, just enough to remind him how easily I could. "Those security guards won't save you. They're not paid enough to die for you."

His chuckle sounds rehearsed, like everything else about him. "Did you really think you're the only player on this board? That your little games will work here?" His eyes glitter with something ugly. "She's going to be mine. And maybe I'll send you videos of how I fuck her. For old times' sake."

"If you say so." The words come out soft, controlled, but we both hear the promise of violence underneath. I pull the knife back, tucking it away.

Murdering Henrik might give me a fleeting pleasure—and God, what a pleasure it would be to watch those cold eyes go dull. But there are ramifications to consider. His territory would fracture, rivals would emerge from the woodwork like the cockroaches they are. I could handle it, crush each one until the streets run red. But that takes time. Resources. Focus I can't afford to waste right now.

Patience, I remind myself. I’ve learned patience over the past years. Patience has paid off.

Everything has its season. Henrik's death will come—but on my schedule, not his.

He rises with that deliberate slowness of a man who thinks he's untouchable. "Remember," he hisses, leaning close enough that I catch the expensive whiskey on his breath. "Every alpha has a day when they get taken down."

A genuine laugh rumbles from my chest. Fucking amateur, like he’s quoting lines from some B-grade mafia movie. “Then I guess you don’t have to worry,” I shoot back, my voice dripping with mock sympathy. “No one’s sending you sorry-for-your-loss cards. You’ll never be an alpha.”

But then he does something that makes my trigger finger itch—he walks to Isabella's table.

I watch every step, calculating how many it would take to reach him. Three, maybe four. He bends down, whispers something in her ear that makes her hands clench white-knuckled on the tablecloth. Her shoulders tense like she's preparing for a blow. When he straightens, he catches my eye, tilts his head in challenge—look what I can do—before strutting out like he's won something.

Isabella doesn't say a word back, but I see it. The slight tremor in her fingers as she reaches for her water glass. The way her throat works as she swallows.

Whatever he said, it landed. And that... that's another debt to add to his growing tab.

And then she sits back up like some marble statue, all perfect posture and distant eyes. But something's off—beyond the shorter hair and the way she moves like every step costs her. She stumbled coming in, just slightly. Like she might shatter. Bad move, letting weakness show here. In our world, that's just blood in the water. And there are so many sharks circling.

I’m still analyzing the cracks in her composure, wondering what she’s been through to make her this fragile, when a syrupy voice interrupts my thoughts. "Are you happy with your possible purchase?" The French matriarch's voice drips poison honey. Her eyes track her son as he downs another whiskey, hands trembling slightly. Mommy's money bought him a seat at this table, but he can barely look at Isabella without flinching. Pathetic.

This isn't some civilized auction at Christie's. Hell, even ancient Rome would blush at what's really happening here. Sure, there are "rules" about not killing each other, but we all know tomorrow's tournament will end in blood. It always does.

"Happy?" The laugh that escapes me tastes like gunmetal. "I've not yet begun to play." My gaze finds Isabella again, drawn like a compass to true north. But this isn't about her. It's about power. Control. Making them all understand exactly who's running this game.

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