Page 18 of Goldflame

My gaze snags on the black feather in Martinelli’s breast pocket. Why does it seem… familiar?

But my mind and eyes quickly shift away from the dead man. They lock onto Aurelia, like they always fucking do no matter how much I try to look elsewhere.

She stands apart from the mayhem, her delicate frame wrapped in a black dress that hugs curves I used to claim. Her red hair is pulled back, not a curl in sight—straightened the way I’ve always hated. The sight of it scrapes against something raw inside me.

But it’s the man behind her that really grates on my nerves.

Lorenzo Mancini. The newest member of our littlecriminal family. I haven’t had much chance to interact with the guy, but I know he’s from Italy. He owns the strip club Lavish Eden, the one Aurelia and I went to one night where she ended up squirming beneath me. Lorenzo made some deal with Lucian about expanding his business into our territory.

Right now, all I care about is how close he’s hovering to Aurelia, standing at her back like some kind of fucking protector.

Something possessive and primal claws at my insides. She’s not his to protect.

She’s not yours either, an unwelcome voice reminds me. Not anymore. Not after what she did.

My body hasn’t gotten the memo. Even now, even after everything, my muscles twitch with the need to put myself between her and any other man. To shield her from prying eyes and wandering hands. To remind everyone in this goddamn room that she was mine before she was a backstabber.

My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood.

My attention shifts as I notice Valentine pushing his way through the sea of black suits and dresses, barking orders at other security members as they create a perimeter around the body. Always an efficient soldier, isn’t he? Always cleaning up the mess.

When I glance back at Aurelia, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, her eyes are damp. They’re puffy and red, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days and hasn’t stopped crying.

Fuck, that twists my heart because my arms are twitching to pull her close and stop those tears.

But is it real? Her anguish. Is any of it fuckingreal?

The question claws at my skull as I watch her look away from me and stare at Martinelli. She clutches her chest, her green eyes widening—pools I once lost myself in. There’s a slight tremble of her shoulders as she steps back from the scene, closer to Lorenzo.

My fingers curl into gnarled fists.Who the fuck is this guy?He’s lingering.

I watch as he pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to her. Aurelia dabs at her eyes. But what are those tearsreally? Shock and horror at Martinelli’s death? Or is she crying for herself, terrified of what I’ll do when I finally come for her?

She could be putting on a show. Creating witnesses to her apparent innocence.

The timing is too perfect. Too fucking convenient. Theodore Martinelli was a slippery bastard who rarely showed his face. Today, of all days—my coronation and Adrian’s funeral—he decides to make an appearance and promptly drops dead. Poisoned.

Just like DeMarco.

Aurelia’s first kill.

DeMarco. Whitman. Victoria.

And now Martinelli?

Fuck.

I drag my hand down my face, trying to clear the fog of confusion and rage that clouds my judgment whenever I look at her. My chest feels like it’s being ripped in two—one half still yearning for her, aching to believeevery crazy thing she’s told me, while the other half burns with betrayal and the certainty of her guilt.

Is this what love becomes when it’s poisoned? This twisted, agonizing thing that neither lives nor dies but festers like an infected wound?

Right now, I regret ever loving her.

My muscles coil as I watch Lorenzo lean down to whisper something in her ear. Her body tilts toward him, responding to his words with a slight nod.

The sight sets something inside me on fire. It takes every ounce of my control not to storm across the room and shove him away. To remind him and everyone that regardless of what she’s done, she’s still mine to deal with. Mine to punish. Mine to…

To what? Forgive? Never.

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