Page 217 of The Devil's Thorn
“Please,” he grinned, “I was born cleaned up.”
Nikolai, as always, was quieter. His eyes flicked between Rafael and me before settling ahead. “Let’s just keep it simple tonight. No bodies. No blood. We don’t need fireworks in Italy.”
“No promises,” Rafael said under his breath.
We stepped outside, the air thick with the warmth of the night. A black car waited at the curb, sleek and polished, the kind of luxury that whispered power instead of screamed it.
Rafael opened the back door for me himself, and I slid in, the leather cool against my thighs. He followed, sitting beside me, his thigh brushing mine.
Yuri took the passenger seat, Nikolai behind the wheel.
As the car eased away from the hotel, Naples unfolded outside the window—old, beautiful, haunting. Shadows curled along cobbled alleys, moonlight glinting off domes and old glass.
I turned slightly toward Rafael. “Have you been here before?”
He nodded once. “Business. Years ago. Never stayed long.”
“And tonight?”
He looked at me. “We’ll see.”
I leaned back into the seat, fingers resting on my lap, eyes drifting to the blur of lights passing by. I could feel the tension radiating from all of them—silent, controlled, but tight beneaththe surface. Something was waiting at this gathering. I could feel it in my bones.
“Try not to stab anyone tonight,prin?esa,” Yuri said, glancing back at me with a smirk.
“No promises,” I replied softly, not even looking at him.
Rafael’s low laugh rumbled beside me, and my pulse betrayed me again—quickening, drawn in by the sound even when I didn’t want it to.
I looked forward again, and then I saw it—Villa Cimbrone.
Perched above the coast, it loomed like something out of a gothic dream. Candlelight flickered in its windows, soft and golden, but the air around it felt heavy, charged.
As the car curved toward the gates, my breath caught in my throat.
Showtime.
The car rolled to a smooth stop, the low purr of the engine fading into the hush of the Italian night.
Nikolai shifted into park, glancing back at us once. “We’re here.”
Rafael opened his door first. The moment the night air touched my skin, a different kind of chill sank into me—not cold, just electric, like the city was holding its breath. Then he appeared at my door, tall and composed, one hand extended toward me.
No words. Just him.
I slipped my fingers into his without hesitation. His grip was firm, warm, grounding—not for comfort, but for command.
The gravel crunched softly beneath our feet as we walked toward the entrance ofVilla Cimbrone. I didn’t feel nervous. I should have, maybe. I was walking into a gathering filled with power, danger, and legacy. But there was something almost sacred in the way the wind moved through the cypress trees, the way the stars hung heavy in the sky, like they were watching.
I looked up at the building. It was breathtaking. The villa stood like something pulled from a dream, ancient stone walls veiled in climbing vines, warm light pouring from arched windows. The grand staircase at the front curved upward like a slow exhale, leading toward tall, carved doors that were already open.
And the people. They were everywhere. Scattered across the sweeping courtyard and inner halls, dressed in tailored suits and silk gowns, voices soft and sharp all at once. Wine glasses shimmered in their hands like weapons. Laughter hovered at the edge of tension.
Every glance was calculating. Every smile had teeth.
I stepped forward with Rafael beside me, our strides in sync, the gravel giving way to smooth stone beneath our feet as we climbed the stairs. My fingers still rested in his, and I didn’t let go.
He leaned closer, his voice low, brushing my ear. “If you’re going to draw blood tonight,doit with your words.”
