Page 32 of Isaia

“My kind?”

“Yes, your kind. Families—men who treat the world like their playground, moving people around like puppets. Or worse, like slaves.”

“Are you working for him, Everly?”

The question catches me off guard. I blink up at him. “What?”

“Are you working for Michele Rinaldi?”

My pulse instantly triples as ice shoots through my veins.

“He’s your stepdad.” There’s no question mark at the end of that sentence, his eyes narrowed, watching my reaction.

“See, I knew you knew.” I get up and grab a bottle of white wine from the fridge. “At the café the other day, I called it, and you denied it.” Showing him a wine glass without saying a word is my way of offering him a drink, to which he nods. “You’re all fucking connected somehow,” I start, waving my hand in the air while I pour the chardonnay with the other. “It’s like the mafia—or whatever the hell you call yourselves—are all linked together, stitched like a never-ending quilt of secrets and lies. Everyone knows everyone’s business, right?” I hold out his glass for him.

Our eyes meet as he takes the glass, fingers brushing mine in a fleeting touch that sends tiny fireworks sparking along my skin. The sensation catches me off guard, but I shake it off and turn my back on him. “I figured we’d have this conversation eventually.”

“And why’s that?”

I offer a weary smile, trying to keep it light. “Because you are who you are, and he is who he is.” Simple. True.

I sit next to Luna, brushing my fingers down her back. “To answer your question, no. I don’t work for him.” Then it dawns on me. “Oh, my God. That’s why you bought the café. To spy on me.”

“Maybe.”

I scoff. “Unbelievable. That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think?”

Isaia takes a sip of the wine, then proceeds to down the whole glass. “Drastic measures are the only ones worth taking for vital matters. And your stepdad is a vital matter.”

“He’s charming, I know,” I say with enthusiastic sarcasm. “So, here I am thinking you’re working with my stepdad, sent to drag my ass back to New York, while you’re thinking I’m working for him as well. Doing what, exactly? Spying on the great Dark Sovereign?”

His lack of a response confirms it.

“You’re kidding, right?” I drag a hand through my hair, strands falling across my face. “This is insane. I despise the man. I’d rather chew off my own arm than work for him.”

Isaia pushes away from the wall and sits on the coffee table right in front of me.

Right. In. Front of me.

He’s so close, I can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent wrapping around me—woodsmoke and something darkly sensual.

With his elbows on his knees, he leans forward, his head slanted, like he’s studying me, searching for the truth in my mismatched eyes. “You were crying before you had the attack.”

I swallow.

“Why? Who were you talking to on the phone?”

“None of your business.”

“You know I’ll find out eventually. Might as well tell me now.”

I take a slow sip from my glass, refusing to break eye contact. The silence that stretches between us is thick with unsaid words, laced with an edge that feels like it could snap at any moment. My refusal to answer hangs between us like a challenge.

A flicker of something dark crosses his features. “Why do you hate him?”

“Like you said, you’ll find out eventually,” I murmur. “But not tonight.”

The silence hums, thick and charged. It’s like the air itself is tightening around us, pushing us closer together, even though neither of us has moved. Isaia doesn’t need to come closer to make me feel like I’m drowning in him. It’s a gravitational pull, one that’s impossible to ignore, tugging me deeper into something I know I shouldn’t want.

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