Page 40 of Marriage of Revenge

Like he watched me.

But getting there means winning this tournament—a test of strength, cunning, and the alliances I've forged in blood. And with every second ticking down, the danger tightens like faulty wire around us.

Phones in hand, ready to hack, because this isn't some schoolyard game. This is our empire, built with blood and loyalty, and today, I'll prove mine reigns supreme. I’ll win this thing for my family. My chosen one. The ones I protect with everything I have. I’ll get my revenge and everything I deserve. Everything the people on my compound should claim as theirs.

Even if the taste of her lingers, even if the memory of her skin distracts me more than I'd like.

I take a deep drag of air, and for a split second—a damn weak moment—I think I might catch that honeysuckle scent. But it isn't there.

She isn't there.

"You always seem so tense. Try smiling once in a while," Connor remarks, slapping my back with his ever-present grin. Like we're old friends. Like we both don't have blood on our hands.

"My smiles are earned not given freely." I settle into the chair at my assigned table, fingers ghosting over my laptop. "I'll smile when victory is mine. And it will be mine."

Connor chuckles, but there's steel under that Irish charm. "Do you know what we say in Ireland?"

"That the dark Guinness you brag about is terrible?" The words come easy, this dance of deadly men playing at friendship.

His feigned hurt is almost convincing. "You wound me, Antonio." He glances around conspiratorially, then leans in close enough I can smell expensive whiskey and gunpowder. "If you're enough lucky to be Irish... You're lucky enough!" He pauses, eyes sharp despite his grin. "I'll still win. But still let me tell you something else." His accent thickens like blood. "As you slide down the banisters of life, May the splinters never point the wrong way."

The corner of my mouth quirks upward—it's not quite a smile, but it's enough to make three of Henrik's men shift nervously. Connor's booming laughter turns every head our way, slicing through the tension like a well-placed blade.

"There you are. Catch you later, lad." His table is just a few feet from mine. Close enough to watch each other's backs. Or put a bullet in them.

Henrik and Radomir trade death stares across the room like they're in some playground showdown.

Henrik stops by his crew again, barking orders, but this time refusing the champagne they keep pushing at him.

His hands shake—barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. There are whispers he's been threatening families to ensureloyalty, like fear alone builds empires. Fucking idiot. Those same families will slit his throat the second they see weakness.

Radomir isn't any better. All cold Russian efficiency on the surface, but I've seen how his organization bleeds from a thousand small betrayals. Power through fear only works until something scarier comes along.

I've done business with both of them, played the game, shook hands while slipping knives between ribs. Henrik tried to bury me more than once, burned down one of my safe houses, killed people who trusted me for protection. He thinks those deaths are on my conscience. He should ask himself why his shipments keep getting seized, why his best hackers keep disappearing. Why his "loyal" crew looks at me when they think he's not watching.

Idiots, both of them. They take their respective places like kings at a chess match, not realizing they're just pawns in a bigger game.

My game.

Another figure strides in, and though it's not Christophe, Mrs. Lefevre's trailing presence suggests we've got another heir in the mix. He's wearing a scowl so deep you'd think someone pissed in his espresso. Relax, buddy—you'll be out the door before your laptop even warms up.

Before Henrik can spew his predictable protest about this unexpected twist, my eyes start their own mission across the ballroom—searching for her. Like some fucking magnetic pull I can't resist.

The clock reads 5:25 am. Five minutes until this hacking showdown kicks off, and my fingers itch for the keyboard. For control. For something other than the memory of her skin.

And precisely at 5:27 am, the prick I once called a stepfather makes his entrance, his daughter in tow.

His daughter. My soon-to-be wife. My revenge.

But fuck—a sudden heat courses through me as I take her in, and it has nothing to do with vengeance. Those faded jeans hug curves that weren't there when we were younger, when I first noticed how she moved. The tank top, loose yet revealing enough to make my mouth dry, paired with that casual cardigan—it's like we're teenagers again, but not. Because this Isabella isn't the innocent ballerina who used to practice until her feet bled.

Her gaze falters for just a fraction of a second, a ripple of vulnerability that she quickly masks by squaring her shoulders. The way her fingers grip the hem of her cardigan—white-knuckled, desperate—betrays the fear she’s trying to hide beneath that iron will.

Her fingers clutched my shoulders yesterday and the noises she was making? Pure need.

It shouldn’t matter. I’ve hardened myself against caring, against the temptation of that fire and fragility she carries. But then there are those damn Converse she’s wearing. They make her look young and fierce and so fucking beautiful it hurts, like she’s ready to run—either from me or to me. I’m not sure which is more dangerous.

Either way, danger clings to her, and to me, like a second skin.

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