Page 51 of Her Cruel Empire
He looks so much like Papa sometimes that it makes my heart hurt. Same noble jawline, same thoughtful pause before speaking, same way of tilting his head when he’s studying a problem. The same silver threads through his dark hair, though my father is now much more salt than pepper.
Stefan has been a rock for me all these years. My uncle, my ally, my only family since Papa fell into that twilight sleep between life and death.
“I’m just thinking about business,” I lie smoothly.
“As always,” he says, and I smile mechanically.
A maid slips into the room carrying a silver tray laden with delicate pastries, another bone china tea service, and a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. She sets it on the low table between us with practiced silence, her movements careful and respectful. When she retreats, Stefan leans forward with genuine pleasure.
“Still keeping the old customs alive, I see.”
The aniseed liqueur in the decanter is a family tradition, distilled right here in the castle. The recipe is older than the castle it’s now made in, passed down through generations who understood that some rituals anchor you when the world tries to sweep you away.
I pour us both a measure, the familiar scent of licorice and herbs rising on the warm air from the fireplace. The crystal glasses catch the light, fracturing it into amber sparks.
“Some things shouldn’t change,” I say, handing him his glass.
Stefan raises it in a small salute before taking a sip, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation. When he opens them again, the warmth there shifts to something more serious.
“How is my brother?”
The question I’ve been dreading. The one I can never answer with anything approaching satisfaction.
“No change.”
Two words that encompass months of waiting, of sitting beside his bed listening to the rhythmic hiss of machines, of watching for any flicker of consciousness behind his closed eyelids. No change means he’s neither better nor worse. Suspended in that gray space between life and death, beyond my reach.
Stefan nods slowly, his fingers turning the crystal glass in small circles. “And how close are you to avenging his death?”
The correction comes automatically, sharp and steely. “He’s not dead.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s unfair. Stefan doesn’t flinch at my tone. He simply waits, patiently, for me to continue.
I sigh and take a larger sip of the liqueur, letting the burn ground me. “I haven’t yet found the person who ordered the hit. My meetings with our various clients have yielded no new leads.” Another year of hunting, of following hints and suggestions down dark alleys and into darker rooms. I look at Stefan, that unwelcome hope struggling into my heart as it always does, no matter how much I try to flatten it. “You?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing, Eva. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve pursued every avenue I can think of,” I continue, my voice flat with frustration. “The Bratva connection led nowhere. The Sicilians claim ignorance. And none of the Americans have the connections needed to carry out a hit like that in Paris.”
“The Irish?” he asks. I shake my head. “What about the new players? The ones moving in from Asia?”
I shake my head. “Toonew. No. Whoever did this, they are an old acquaintance. This hit was done by someone who has beenwatching us for a long time, who knew exactly when and where we would be.”
Stefan is quiet for a long moment, studying the flames dancing in the grate. When he speaks, his voice is grave. “Then we start again. Because we’ll never stop looking.”
The promise might as well be a blood oath. We clink our glasses together, the crystal singing softly.
“To his awakening,” Stefan says.
“And to vengeance,” I add, draining my glass in one burning swallow.
The liqueur spreads warmth through my chest, but it’s nothing compared to the cold fire that lives there permanently now—the promise I made to my father as he lay bleeding on a Paris street that I would find who did this and make them pay in ways they can’t imagine.
Stefan leans back in his chair, and I catch something shifting in his expression. A glint of amusement creeping into his eyes. “So. Tell me about the girl?”
“The girl?” I ask guiltily. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Not your usual type, is she?”
