Page 88 of The Devil's Thorn
My heels echo across the polished floor as I walk deeper into the chaos disguised as civility. People in gowns and suitshover near artfully arranged hors d’oeuvres, laughing too hard, drinking too slow. Fake smiles. Real threats.
A server passes close with a tray of champagne flutes and I take one. Not because I want to drink, but because I need something to do with my hands while Iwatch.
I sip once—barely—then let the glass hang lightly between my fingers as I walk.
That’s when I feel it. The weight of a gaze that burns more than it should and I know it before I see it.
My spine straightens instinctively. My fingers tighten around the glass. And then—slowly—I glance toward the far end of the room.
Rafael.
He’s standing with three other men. Powerful ones. I recognize one of them from a file Ash showed me—Russian old blood. Dangerous. Loyal only to coin and power.
Rafael’s in black. Classic. Understated. But there’s nothing soft about the way he stands. Shoulders squared. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass that hasn’t moved in the last five minutes.
He looks like he owns this room. Because he does. But his eyes… They’re not on them.
They’re onme.
He turns his head, barely. His gaze slides down my body like a slow drag of silk and fire—unapologetic, deliberate—and then, just as quickly, it shifts away.
Like he didn’t look at all. Like I don’t exist here. Like I’m not the woman he’s been pulling strings around for weeks.
But I saw it. The flicker of tension behind his eyes. The slight part of his lips when he looked at my dress.
He’s pretending. And that’s fine. Because two can play that game.
I exhale slowly and take another sip, my eyes scanning the room until they land on him.
Alessio Romano.
Loud. Laughing too much. Already drinking like he’s celebrating something he didn’t earn. He’s standing near the bar, surrounded by two other Italians and a woman who looks bored out of her mind.
He’s exactly where he should be. And I’m exactly where I want to be. Time to make him talk.
My steps are slow. Controlled. Not lazy, not rushed—just… deliberate. Like the room is a chessboard, and every move I make forces the pieces to shift.
The glass of champagne hangs light in my hand. My other stays close to my side, fingers brushing the edge of my dress near the hidden slit.
Every few steps, someone turns to look. A man lifts his gaze from his drink. A woman glances sideways and leans into her husband’s arm. But I don’t break my stride.
Because I’m not here to be watched. I’m here towatch back.
And my target?
Is already smiling.
Alessio is halfway into his third drink. I can tell by the flush rising to his throat, the slight drag in his eyelids, the louder laugh he gives to something that wasn’t funny.
He’s leaning against the bar, posture lazy, like he owns the air around him. He doesn’t notice me until I’m ten feet away.
Then?
He does a double take.
I don’t smile yet. Let him look. Let him stare. I want him to want me curious first,unattainable second,and dangerous last.
It works every time.
