Page 131 of Dance of Deception

An arm goes around me, drawing me close.

Carmine's scent surrounds me, anchoring me as his lips touch the top of my head.

“Let’s go home, little dancer.”

26

LYRA

My hands won’t stop shaking.

I press them tight against my lap as Carmine drives through the city, willing them to be still, but the tremors don’t stop.

My eyes slide toward him, sitting rigidly behind the wheel of the black Lamborghini, in utter control.

He hasn’t looked at me once since we left the bar.

But suddenly, though not hurriedly, his hand drifts to rest on my thigh—heavy, possessive, fingers curled just enough to keep me in place and stop my hands from shaking.

Blood stains his knuckles. It’s dry now, but I can still smell it.

Marcus Chen is dead. Carmine shot him. And I barely flinched.

What does that say about me?

I turn to stare out the window, my reflection barely visible in the streaks of light flashing past.

Carmine’s grip on my thigh never wavers. When we finally pull up in front of the Barone mansion, I expect him to release me. But he doesn’t, not immediately.

The engine cuts and goes quiet, and we sit there in the silence of the car, the city its usual chaos around us.

Then finally, still without a word, he steps out of the car and shuts the door behind him. I try to do the same, but there’s a missing connection between my brain and my muscles, like my body can't receive the message to open the door and step out to move on with my life after what just happened.

Then suddenly, my door opens. The night air rushes in. And before I can even process it, Carmine is carrying me.

I don’t protest.

Don’t fight.

Just let him.

His arms are strong, comforting, one cradling my knees, the other at my back. My cheek is pressed against his bloodstained suit jacket, but I don’t pull away as he carries me up the steps past his men and into the house.

He brings me up the grand staircase without a word. He steps slowly, carefully, letting the weight of what just happened settle.

I expect him to take me to the guest room. But he doesn’t.

He walks past the room I’ve been sleeping in, and keeps walking until he opens the door to—my chest tightens—hisroom.

When he pushes the door open and steps inside, the weight of everything crashes down and I start to crumble. My breath shudders and my vision blurs, the adrenaline abruptly wearingoff. My body goes limp, exhaustion sinking into the very marrow of my bones.

Carmine sets me down on my feet, but I can’t hold myself up—instantly, I start to fold and crumple. Before I fall, his grip tightens, catching me.

His hands clamp onto my arms almost punishingly as he guides me to his bed and sits me on the edge of it.

"I knew he was obsessed with you, but I didn’t know it was that bad." His voice is quiet but dangerous, every word edged with barely contained fury. "I should’ve killed him the second he started uttering your name."

I swallow hard, trying to find my footing. He doesn't let go. His fingers tighten, forcing me to look at him, his grip unyielding.

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