Page 92 of The Devil's Thorn
“You really want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
His eyes darken, greed licking behind them like flame. “There’s talk that someone inside the Bratva is setting up the Italians. Making it look like the Romanovs are about to break their peace with them.”
My stomach twists—hard—but I don’t show it. I smile.
“Why?”
“Because if war breaks out, someone else takes the territory while everyone else’s too busy bleeding to stop them.”
“And who benefits most from that?”
He lowers his voice again. “There’s a rumor… someone from inside Romanov’s circle is working both ends. They’re feeding names to both sides. Making it look like betrayal.”
“You have a name?”
“I might.” He leans closer. “But that kind of information’s expensive.”
“So am I,” I whisper.
His grin stretches wide. And then his hand moves. Under the table.
Fingers sliding toward the slit in my dress, brushing just under the fabric. He touches skin. Pauses. Looks up at me.
“You feel like silk,” he mutters, voice rough now. “You sure you’re not the prize?”
“That depends,” I say, lowering my gaze, lashes brushing my cheeks. “Do you play nice with your prizes?”
“I can be very nice.”
“Show me.”
I take his hand. And slowly guide it up my thigh. His breath hitches.
He’s all in now—mind soft, body eager, his lips already parting with whatever final confession I didn’t even ask for yet.
“I could tell you something real,” he murmurs, his voice curling like smoke. “Something no one else knows. About Calderone. About?—”
And then— I close his hand around the dagger. The blade is still sheathed, but it doesn’t matter. He freezes. Completely. Eyes wide.
I lean forward until my lips are just at his ear. “You don’t get to touch the prize, Alessio.” I press his palm tighter for just a second—enough for him to feel the sharp edge beneath the leather. “But thank you for your honesty.”
I release his hand. Stand up slowly. No rush. No flinch. Just finality.
He stares up at me, too stunned to speak, his hand still half-curled in midair. And I walk away.
Each step is clean. My shoulders squared. The burn of his silence behind me feels like a victory lap.
He’ll sit there for another minute trying to figure out if that really happened. If I was real. If he ever stood a chance.
And he’ll never know the answer.
Because I’ve already moved on.
And tonight?
I won.
