Page 85 of Isaia

“Just don’t tell Alexius.”

“Goddammit,” he whines. “I knew it. There is no way Alexius would have let you invite the prick if he knew Everly’s supposed to marry the bastard.”

Caelian’s right—which is exactly why I decided not to tell Alexius everything. If he knew about the deal between the Rinaldi and Paladino families, he’d tell me to back off. Doesn’t matter if Everly and Anthony refuse to marry under forced circumstances, the only thing Alexius will concern himself with is keeping the Dark Sovereign out of Rinaldi-Paladino business.

I get it. I do. They are two of the most powerful and influential families in New York. No one wants to fuck with any one of them, not to mention two.

But I’m not no one, and I don’t care whose business I fuck with and who I piss off. Not when it comes to her.

“Wait a minute.” Caelian frowns. “So, when you said ‘I have my ways,’ you meant lying.”

I shrug. “It’s not lying. I just chose not to tell him everything. There’s a difference.”

“You sly fucker.” He slaps me on my shoulder. “I’m so fucking proud of you right now. You finally got your balls. Next comes the hard part. Puberty.”

I glare at him. “Iwillcut you.”

Caelian’s cheeky grin is that of a seven-year-old fucking child, so I make a conscious decision to be the adult in this conversation by focusing my attention elsewhere. On my guest.

Anthony takes a sip of the scotch he ordered—it’s the most expensive brand in the club, and I grit my teeth at how effortlessly he splurges, like he’s here on his own terms and not by invitation.

“I don’t trust him,” I grit out.

“Of course you don’t. He has permission to fuck your girl since they’re practically walking down the aisle already.”

“Caelian, I swear to God I will lock you in my yellow car and make you sit there for hours.”

My brother gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “You wouldn’t, you fucking maniac. I always knew you were capable of cruel and unusual punishment, but that? That’s twisted shit, you fucking psycho.”

I don’t respond, and we both stare down at Anthony in silence for a full five minutes before Caelian finally blurts, “Maybe he’s not scared of you.”

“He should be.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re terrifying.” He grins, teeth flashing in the low light. “But let me ask you this. Is he the problem? Or is it the fact that Everly doesn’t exactly slam the door in his face?”

My jaw tightens as I glance down again. The stripper leans in, whispering something in Anthony’s ear, and he laughs—easy, light, as if nothing about this situation bothers him. It’s deliberate. Everything he does is calculated. And every second he’s here feels like a challenge.

“Shall I send her away?” The question comes from my right, a woman dressed in barely-there black lace, her red lips curling as she watches me watch him. She nods toward the stripper in Anthony’s lap. “Or maybe she’s serving a purpose?”

“No,” I say and hand her my empty glass. “Let him play. For now.”

She saunters off, and I keep my gaze locked on my target. “I invited him for a reason,” I say.

“Ah.” Caelian downs his drink. “The old ‘bring your enemy closer so you can glare at him more efficiently’ move. Genius.”

“I wanted to see how he’d act. See what he’s really after.”

“And?” Caelian leans in, genuinely curious now. “What’s the verdict, Sherlock?”

“He’s playing the long game,” I mutter. “And I don’t like it.”

Below, Anthony finally looks up, his eyes locking on mine like he’s been waiting for me to notice. He tips his glass in a silent toast, and Caelian snorts.

“You know what’s funny?” he says. “He’s probably thinking the exact same thing about you.”

“Stay here.” I step away from the railing.

“Where are you going?” Caelian calls after me. “Gonna give him a Club Myth welcome gift? Maybe a fruit basket?”

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