Page 49 of Dance of Deception

“I—I’m sorry,” I blurt, my eyes darting to Bianca. “I’m so sorry.”

And then I turn and scurry over to the man with the iPad.

Carmine watchesme like a predator deciding if I’m worth the effort of the hunt.

He sits across from me on a low, expensive-looking couch identical to the one I’m sitting on, an arm draped along the back, fingers tapping the leather. Between us, a sleek coffee table gleams in the dim light, separating his world from mine.

My hands twist in my lap. I feel like I’m at the most awkward job interview of all time.

I don’t belong here.

I know it.Heknows it.

I also don’t have a choice.

Carmine leans forward slightly, the corners of his mouth curving in a slow, mirthless smile.

“Well, well,” he murmurs. “If it isn’t Miss Nobody, who heard nothing.”

My stomach tightens.

It takes a second for me to remember the words from our first meeting in the alley behind the theater, when I was pressed against the wall, his hand wrapped around my throat.

I hold his gaze. “I prefer Lyra, actually.”

His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Well,Lyra, let’s get into it, then. You know this interview was specifically for women from mafia families, right?”

I nod, trying to keep my breathing steady. “I’m aware.”

Carmine tilts his head, studying me like a specimen under a microscope. “You’re Arkadi Ostrov’s daughter.”

I clench my jaw. “Yes.”

Something cold and sharp flashes across his face.

“Mafia families,” he repeats, his voice edged. “Not families of a psychopath who kept a harem of teenaged girls locked in a fucking basement before slaughtering them.”

My throat goes tight, but I school my expression, keeping my posture professional—like I’m at a job interview, not sitting in the lion’s den.

“So…” I clear my throat. “Do you have any questions?—”

“Stop.”

Carmine’s eyes glint, cruelly amused.

“You really think this is anormalconversation?” He leans back against the couch, spreading his arms along the top, completely at ease.

I lift my chin, trying not to hyperventilate. “I thought that was the point of an interview.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “Cute.”

The silence between us stretches out heavily. Then his gaze flicks down, zeroing in on my throat.

His expression shifts—the humor fading, darkness taking its place.

“Where’s your necklace?”

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