I haven't slept since that night. I hardly feel like I've existed at all, and it has left me completely exhausted.
I don't remember anything that happened over the last few days, but, somehow, it's already the morning of the gala.
In the evening, I'll be off to the Ravelle's main tower to peacock for Lucius.
Ugh. Whatever, I'll handle the task in stride, like I always do.
I shrug off my irritation. Despite the early hour, I've already showered and washed myself, leaving me clean and fresh.
The sunrise is hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, and it finds me at the balcony door. I'm barefoot, watching rain rattle against the stone with a listless expression. It has been stormy and gray since that night—maybe the gods feel sorry for me, too, after such a colossal failure.
My gaze lands on a few alleycats hiding under the eaves, trying to keep out of the weather. I smile softly and break off a few pieces of my neglected croissant, tossing them to the ground near my feet as an offering. A tortoiseshell comes first, her tail crooked at the end, and she eagerly nibbles on one of the chunks.
A gray tom cat sits behind her a few paces, pretending not to be interested even though he is obviously hungry. I kneel and stroke the tortoiseshell once on the head, eliciting a quiet purr from her, and salute the tom respectfully before heading back inside.
I like cats, but I've never had one for myself. Taking care of a living creature is a luxury I can't afford when I spend every waking moment sucking up to the boss, so feeding the strays is the best I can do. I glance back once more to see them both eating, and leave content knowing neither will starve for another day.
When I get back to my room, I stand in front of my mirror and sigh. It's a pain in the ass to get dressed up, especially when it's to impress someone else… but I'm not as irritated as I usually would be, because some curious part of me is a little excited to see him again.
Lucius Ravelle is stimulating, if nothing else. There's something in the way he looked at me that left those piercing blue eyes burned into my memory.
I take another deep breath and scold myself. I have to kill him. There's no room for mistakes, no matter how handsome the mistake is.
I take a seat at my vanity and dig through the drawer to pull out my favorite cosmetics, lining up the regimen in front of me. I start with moisturizer, then sunscreen and foundation, then get to the finer details like concealer and the rest. While I'm applying it, I hear my bedroom door creak open.
I don't even have to look to see who it is. There's only one entitled bitch that would open my door without knocking.
"Sofia," I greet coolly. I don't have the patience for her games today, but that won't stop her from irritating me.
"You're awake early, cousin! Getting ready for tonight?" Sofia says in her sickening, syrupy voice. She walks casually into my room and places a steaming cup in front of me. "I brought you some coffee, figured it might give you a little boost."
I narrow my eyes at the mug, but I hum in acknowledgement. "Thanks."
"Father also asked me to drop off this file for you," she adds, placing a dossier beside the coffee. It reads 'Lucius Ravelle' on the coverlet.
I click my tongue in annoyance. What's the point of giving this to me? I studied Lucius for weeks before my previous attempt on his life. I know everything about him, from his exact height to how many steps it takes him to walk from his car to his office.
"Useless," I sigh aloud, but don't bother elaborating. She doesn't give a shit, anyway—she's only here to bother me and put on a show of being a caring adoptive sister.
"Are you going to wear that?" Sofia points to a gown I have laid out on my bed. It's a very short, black, satin dress that will barely stretch far enough to hide my blade.
I hum again. "That's why it's lying there, yeah."
"You'll look very dangerous," she coos.
"Good," I shrug, "because I am."
"Men prefer danger they think they can fix." She places her cup on my vanity without a coaster, making me cringe inwardly. "If it helps, I've asked for the photographs to be kind. Tilt your chin during the first dance—good lighting can hide even the ugliest sins."
"Perfect," I say. "I plan to perform several."
Sofia chuckles, amused, and makes several more poor attempts at conversation before finally giving up. Her smile is slow poison as she turns to exit the room, "Break a heart, cugina. Preferably his."
"Naturally," I agree, and watch her delight in what she has deemed an acceptable reaction.
When she finally leaves, I pin a tiny blade behind my ear, press my palms to the cool vanity, and breathe once to still my irritation.
I study Lucius's file as I sip the coffee Sofia brought—disgusting, as usual, but I can always use a little boost. I skim the dossier like I always do, searching for anything of note.
It's the usual: his security routines, the make of the cars, the names of his lieutenants. Notes on his temper. A list of his favourite restaurants. A map of his most-used exits. All painstaking, sterile, and absolutely no help when you want to know how to make a man drop his guard in the heat of a waltz.
Then I reach the page titled: Personal / Preferences.
I blink.
Someone in Alessandro's employ thought this would be useful. Or someone high in the Ravelle orbit thought they could charm our analysts into thinking intimacy was intelligence. Either way, the list reads like a bad dating profile, and I can't help but cringe a little as I read.
He prefers dark suits. (Noted. He also prefers them when I'm wearing something that shows one ankle.)
He dislikes jasmine. (What does one do with that? Burn the florist? Avoid hotel lobbies?)
He has an irrational irritation with mismatched socks. (A red flag for a man who cares about tiny things? Or a tell?)
He collects—wait for it—hand-stitched handkerchiefs. (He folds them diligently and names them like trophies.)
He only drinks coffee black. (I make a note to order him a cappuccino at some crucial moment and watch his face.)
He adores classical music when he is angry; jazz when he's pleased. (So if I want to make him suspicious, play Chopin. If I want to make him indulgent, cue Coltrane.)
He keeps a list of books he has never finished. (Ambitious and lazy. Dangerous combination.)
He likes cats, but his favorite breed is the sphynx. (I drop the file and sit back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Of course, he likes cats; only a monster would hate them! He might not be so bad after all.)
He also apparently hates olives. (Who hates olives? Men who also collect handkerchiefs, it seems.)
I laugh before I can stop it — a hiccuping, involuntary sound that catches in my chest. The sound that escapes my lips is ridiculous. The dossier is ridiculous. The whole idea that a man who can ruin entire docks over a bad contract loves naked, wrinkly cats and has a sock phobia is laughable and unnerving in equal measure.
Rocco's voice from behind my door cuts through my amusement. "Sir—ah, Alessandro is on line three."
I snatch up the phone and wait a moment before answering. Alessandro's voice is the same stale, nothing it's always been. "Report."
"Gala tonight," I say. "I'm ready."
"You will cultivate," he says, not even a hint of warmth in his tone, "You will be successful and come back with useful information."
"Of course," I lie. "I will make him confess how he likes his handkerchiefs folded."
He does not like the joke. "Be instructive, Ophelia. Make advantage."
"Yes, Uncle."
When I hang up, I stare at the dossier and consider whether I could weaponize the absurd. A handkerchief dropped in a boardroom, an olive placed conspicuously near his chair… The ideas taste dangerous but tantalizing. Sure, I'm supposed to seduce him, but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun.
I glance at the gown on my bed and groan inwardly. I really need to finish getting ready since I've had more than enough fun laughing at these ridiculous little tidbits. Who knew an untouchable man like Lucius would have so many laughable quirks?
I tuck the stained dossier into a folder with my notes and add a new line under Personal / Preferences:
Lucius Ravelle — exploitable: cat-person, hates jasmine, pocket-square fetish. Bring olives for a laugh.
I smile, soft and traitorous, and for the first time in days, I feel alert. This gala is going to go incredibly well, I can feel it.