Page 96 of Fire and Silk
She looked at me and chose a title. She signed herself into something that doesn’t have her name on it. Not really. She said goodbye, and I let her.
That’s on me.
I could have stopped her. Could have stepped in front of him and made her look again. But I waited. I thought she'd come back on her own.
I've always waited where she was concerned.
Back then, when we were kids, I let the silence sit between us. I should’ve told her what I wanted. I should’ve reached for her first.
But I was still listening to rules. Still pretending I didn’t want her in a way that broke things.
Now I know better.
Maybe this is her way of testing me. Of pushing to see if I’ll fight. Maybe she’s standing in that estate hoping someone pulls her out before she disappears into that world completely.
I don’t care if it’s true or not.
I’m choosing the fight.
The Marrazi mansion appears in the distance like it grew from the hills. White stone, wide drive, many cars out front. One gate, two guards. They move when I roll up, palms out, hands on their hips like they’ve already decided I don’t belong here.
The taller one steps up to my window.
“Name and business.”
“Tell Maksim and Mina Dantès,” I say, “that I know how to take the third heir down.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flicker toward the house. The other one speaks into his walkie. Their heads dip toward each other. One of them looks back at me. Another transmission goes out. It takes a minute.
Then the gate opens.
I drive in slowly. The gravel path cuts through a manicured stretch of lawn. The mansion stretches wide—archedwindows, curved balconies, too much symmetry. The kind of house that doesn’t allow for accidents.
I park in front of the side portico where a man in a black vest waits with an automatic rifle slung across his chest. He doesn’t speak. He just gestures with the barrel.
I follow him.
The hallway is long, silent, and hung with old paintings. I catch a whiff of tobacco. Lavender polish on the floor. A set of doors stands open at the end of the corridor.
Inside, the ceiling is high and coffered. Marble floors. Sunlight streams in from tall, thin windows lined with gauze curtains.
They’re both seated.
Maksim leans back in a leather chair, legs spread wide, glass of something brown in his hand. His shirt’s open at the neck, collarbones sharp. He looks like he hasn't slept.
Mina’s sitting straighter. She wears navy. Her eyes go to mine and stay there.
The light in the room catches the lacquer on her nails.
Her head tilts just slightly.
“Is this a joke?” she asks, her voice dry. “Because you’re not dressed like a clown, but this entrance feels... theatrical.”
I meet both their eyes. I don't let myself blink.
“You want to take your half-brother down,” I say. “I want my woman. We both want what he stole from us.”
Maksim sets his drink down. The sound is louder than it should be. “How do you know who we are?” he asks. “And what exactly do you think he stole?”
