Page 22 of Goldflame

What freedom. What a rush.

“No!” Aurelia shouts, trying to break away from the guard holding her.

“Why not?” I ask coldly. “You took family from me. I should return the favor.”

She finally breaks, falling to her knees and sobbing. “Please, Julian. Please don’t…”

The rush starts to fade as my eyes track a tear rolling down her cheek. Maybe I should feel happy that she’s falling apart like this after how she hurt me, but I don’t.

I don’t like seeing her so frail and broken.

I clear my throat so my voice doesn’t crack. “Get her out of here,” I tell the guards.

The one with the gun glances at me, questioning if I want him to kill Valentine. I give him a slight head shake and he holsters the gun.

What I won’t admit out loud is, I still need Valentine. He knows everything about running this shit show, so for now, he gets to live.

The guards drag Aurelia out of the alcove and through the crowd, which parts like the Red Sea before Moses. Hushed whispers follow in their wake, hungry bloodsuckers feasting on the spectacle of the Golden One’s fall from grace.

Lorenzo watches from the edge of the crowd, swirling his wine, his expression detached as Aureliadisappears from view. He sure likes watching her. I’ll have to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t make a play for what’s mine.

I turn to Valentine, who stands rigid with barely contained fury. “Clean this up,” I say, gesturing toward the space where Martinelli’s body still lies. “It’s been here too long already.”

For a moment, I think he might refuse. Might challenge me again. Then his shoulders slump almost imperceptibly, and he nods. “Yes, sir.”

The formality in his tone—the acknowledgment of my authority—makes another grin lift my mood.

Mother steps to my side, slipping her arm through mine as Valentine walks away. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “Taking control. Showing them you won’t tolerate betrayal. You did wonderfully.”

Even as warmth spreads through me at her praise, a sliver of doubt works its way into my mind like a splinter beneath the skin.

Was this the right move?

CHAPTER EIGHT

AURELIA

My mind races, trying to make sense of what’s happened. Everything is moving too fast, spiraling beyond my control. One moment I was standing in an alcove with Julian kissing me, the next I was being hauled away like garbage.

The guards’ fingers dig into my arms as they drag me through the crowd. Each face I pass is a blank mask, eyes averted or—worse—glittering with poorly concealed satisfaction at seeing the Golden One humiliated.

My mother endured this. The thought crashes into me with such force that my knees nearly buckle. This is how they treated her—like an object to be passed around, used, and discarded. Something less than human. Something they could drag away while Consortium members sipped their expensive wines and pretended not to see.

For years, I read her diary entries describing how men would grab her by the arms just like this, how they’d force her into rooms, how no one would help her.But reading it and experiencing it are vastly different things.

My eyes sting with tears, but I blink them away. None of this filth will get the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Instead, I lift my chin and do my best to keep pace with the guards.

Valentine stands over Martinelli’s body, barking orders at other security personnel. His eyes meet mine briefly, weariness etched into the lines of his face. I know he can’t intervene—not without risking his own life. Julian just demonstrated exactly what happens to anyone who dares defy him. The new leader of the Inferno Consortium has officially emerged, and he’s more monster than I thought he’d ever become.

Like father, like son.

The realization pierces me like a blade between the ribs. Despite everything, I’d believed Julian was someone else. That beneath all his darkness and rage beat a heart capable of real love. Of understanding.

God, I’m such a fool.

Before I’m yanked from the reception area of the vineyard, my eyes find Lorenzo in the sea of faces. He watches, wine glass delicately balanced between his fingers, expression utterly impassive. No hint of the warmth from our earlier conversation remains. He looks cold and detached.

Great.He’s just like all the other bastards here—doesn’t lift a finger when a woman’s in trouble. I thought he was different, but I’m clearly a horrible judge of character; Julian is proof of that. When will I learn?

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