Page 99 of Dance of Madness

My knife cuts cleanly through his jugular, spilling a river of blood onto the stone floor. He jerks, gurgles briefly, then falls face down into it and goes still.

I glance up and frown.

Shit, he reallywasclose.

Too close.

I’m losing my edge, and I know damn well why.

20

MILENA

They sayidle hands are the devil’s workshop.

I mean,Idon’t. But “they” do.

In my case, the idle hands come from a distinct lack ofNeroin my life over the last 60-odd hours. And they're taking over, and making me do insane things.

…Like clean up my bedroom.

It’s not a disaster area or anything. But it was already overdue for a refresh when I moved out a few years ago, and ever since I’ve movedback, I haven’t done squat to it. So tonight, my idle hands are hard at work.

Switching around framed photos on the wall. Moving my monstera plant from one corner to the other. Switching up the arrangement of my super cozy reading nook. I even managed to grunt and strain my way through shifting my bed a little closer to the windows, because why not.

I finally turn to my massive bookshelves, eying them warily. Organizing my books is definitely a project I’ve been putting off.

No time like the present. I step closer, my lip catching in my teeth as my gaze lands on one of theseveralcopies ofThe Sorrows of Young Wertheron the shelves. My mind drifts to that scene in the bookstore.

Laz.

I frown as I turn away from the shelves. I grab my phone from my desk and flop face-down on my bed as I unlock it and open Instagram.

What are you doing, weirdo.

Alargesection of my brain has been completely stuck on Nero for the last few days: his mannerisms. The predatory way he walks and prowls, the feral feeling I get with him. His eyes, glinting green. His touch, his scent, the taste of his lips. The thrill of his footsteps rushing through the dark, right behind me.

But now, the small piece of my brain thatisn’tpreoccupied with Nero switches to another face.

I push down the bizarre feelings of guilt…what arethoseabout…as I tap on Laz’s profile and start scrolling his posts.

At first glance, it’s the social media account of any young, good-looking mafia heir. Pictures of him next to exotic sports cars or holding a glass of champagne. On vacation. At clubs. Many photos taken at Doomsday, which he partially owns. Lots—lots—of him posing with or surrounded by gorgeous women.

I roll my eyes.

Then, I start to notice other posts, sprinkled between the rest. These ones have way fewer likes or comments.

They catchmyattention, though.

Shots of vintage bookstores. Of first edition books. Reposts of interestingNew Yorkerarticles and essays. Even some photos of Earnest Hemingway’s grave, which it appears Laz specifically traveled to Ketchum, Idaho to see.

I pause, frowning.

For the second time, I’m considering there’s a whole other side to him I never knew about.

I scroll back up and tap on a slideshow from when Laz visited Ibiza a few months ago. Shots of him shirtless on the beach—tanned, shredded, tattooed.

Charming, perfect smile. Slightly tousled dark hair. Piercing green eyes.

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