Page 89 of The Devil's Thorn
By the time I reach the small circle of three men and one woman, his attention is mine. The woman is watching me likeshe already knows she’s been replaced. One of the men gives a small smirk. The other pretends not to care.
“Well,” Alessio says, pushing off the bar with a grin, “I know I would’ve remembered you if we’d met before.”
I tilt my head slightly, offering him a polite smile. “That depends on how much you’d already had to drink.”
The man beside him chuckles.
“She’s got you there, Romano.”
The third one raises his glass in lazy approval. “Finally, someone who doesn’t blush when he speaks.”
Alessio lets out a laugh, brushing his fingers through his dark, too-gelled hair. “Touché,” he says. “And what’s your name, mystery woman?”
“Natasha.”
It slides off my tongue like honey. No hesitation. No crack in the lie.
“Russian?” one of the others asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Half. Depends who’s asking.”
The woman beside them huffs softly, says nothing, and turns on her heel. Her heels click away into the hum of the gathering.
Good. Less noise. More room.
Alessio doesn’t even notice she’s gone.
“Well, Natasha,” he says, stepping slightly closer, “what brings you to a place like this?”
I sip my champagne. “Curiosity. And a very boring date who disappeared ten minutes after we arrived.”
“Idiot,” one of the men mutters.
“His loss,” the other adds, eyes dragging down the line of my body like I’m an auction item. I glance at him once—cool and uninterested—and then turn back to Alessio.
“I heard a lot of people come to these events for business,” I say, lowering my voice slightly. “But I’m starting to wonder if anyone really says anything of value.”
Alessio grins.
“Depends who you’re talking to.”
“And you?”
“Oh,” he leans in just enough to lower his voice. “I know plenty of valuable things. But it costs extra to hear them.”
I smile again—smaller this time, sharper. “Then maybe you should sit with me for a drink. Let’s see what I can afford.”
His grin stretches.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Alessio offers his arm like he thinks this is a date.
I don’t take it. Instead, I turn toward the far end of the room, where a small corner table sits just close enough to the main crowd to be seen—but far enough to whisper without being heard.
He follows, eager, cocky, two steps behind me like he’s already convinced himself he’s won something.
But I don’t move like a prize. I move like a weapon wrapped in black silk.
