By morning, I've convinced myself I dreamed the whole thing—because there's no fucking way that Lucius Ravelle would wine and dine me, then give me a phone just for him…
I get up early to shower, dress, and prepare myself for the day. I had almost an entire week off because the puppet got murdered, and Alessandro was doing some kind of staff rearranging, but now it's back to business. There's a stack of paperwork nearly six inches tall sitting on my desk, waiting for me.
I sigh. It's a blessing and a curse that he trusts me with this part of the empire—not out of affection, but because I'm efficient.
Well, also because Dante and Sofia are fucking useless, but that's beside the point. I am the rightful heir, and everyone knows this—even Alessandro, despite his indifference toward me. He would have had me killed a long time ago if it weren't for the fact that I am such an obedient niece.
I would never usurp my uncle.
…I scoff at that train of thought. I don't know how he actually thinks that.
I'll have that man's head as soon as the opportunity presents itself, and everything is in place. He still has some time before then.
I sit down at my work desk, all three of my cell phones sitting in the drawer next to me while I read contracts, re-route shipments, and flag potential leaks. I decide which warehouses need to be reinforced, which smuggling routes are compromised, and which shell companies require new names.
It's thankless, brutal work, but it keeps me alive.
Halfway through a shipping manifest, the drawer buzzes.
I freeze.
Alessandro doesn't usually bother me so early in the day, especially not on work days.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I pull it open, heart sinking when I see it's Lucius's phone that's lit up.. Three new messages, stacked neatly:
[Eat yet?]
[Don't skip meals. I'll know.]
…and a sticker of a pouty cartoon penguin holding a fork and knife.
I bury my face in my hands. Oh, my gods. Is he being serious right now?
I type back quickly: [Do you ever stop?]
[No.]
Then another sticker, a winking rabbit with hearts spinning around its head.
I groan and toss the phone back into the drawer, but it doesn't stay quiet.
Ten minutes later, it starts going off again. I pinch the bridge of my nose in irritation, but the amount of paperwork I need to do is agonizingly huge, and any break is tempting—even if that's responding to his obnoxious messages.
I unlock the phone.
[Do you miss your hairpin?]
[Too bad. It's mine now.]
I hiss out a laugh I can't smother, then glance around the study like Alessandro might materialize to see me smiling at my phone. I don't know why it's so endearing to me that he's texting like this—maybe I'm lonelier than I thought. I've never had someone to banter with in such a way before.
I text back: [You are insufferable.]
[You like it.]
And then, very casually, he adds,
[Remember, you still want to kill me. Don't get distracted.]
My blood runs hot. I know that he's aware of my plans, but his casual needling at me about it is irritating, cruelly reminding me of my spectacular failure. I type furiously: [Don't flatter yourself.]
Buzz.
[Too late.]
…and a sticker of a cat with sunglasses giving a smug grin.
I place the phone down a little harder than I intended and return to the manifest, but the words blur together when I try to read. Every buzz distracts me, and every stupid sticker makes my lips twitch in amusement.
I'm trying to act like the consigliere I am, carving out empire decisions on behalf of Alessandro Marchesi. Yet, all the while, Lucius Ravelle is pestering me with pastel animals and ambiguously threatening texts.
I sigh again. It's going to be a long day, I can tell.
———
By midday, I'm seated at the long conference table with three of our lieutenants. Two men in suits are reviewing contracts with me, one tapping his pen while he drones on about shipment quotas through the Adriatic. I should be focused because it's essential.
Buzz.
I press my index finger to my temple, praying no one notices the faint glow seeping from my purse.
"Is there a problem, Signorina Marchesi?" one of the men asks.
"No," I say tightly, shuffling the papers. "Continue."
Buzz.
Buzz.
I try to ignore it until finally, after thirty minutes, I excuse myself, muttering something about a call from the accountants, and duck into the hallway. I pull the black phone out, thumb already furious.
Three new messages:
[Are you bored?]
[You look bored.]
…and a sticker of a yawning bear with drool on its face.
I click my tongue the way I do when I'm irritated, but I'm really kind of amused. "You absolute psycho," I whisper, shaking my head in disbelief. He knows I look bored?
I type back: [You can't possibly know what I'm doing right now.]
The reply is instant:
[Guess.]
I freeze, staring at the words like they might change if I glare hard enough. His condescending and invasive behavior makes my heart race.
Another text:
[Paperwork. You hate it. You scrunch your nose.]
My pulse skips. That's a lucky guess; I was in a meeting, so he's not entirely correct—but the nose scrunching is true when I'm focused. That part weirds me out a little.
I text back: [I'm actually in a meeting.]
[Texting during a meeting? How irresponsible.]
He's the reason I'm distracted! This piece of shit… I type, [Your texts were disruptive. I had to step out.]
[Is that so?] Followed by a smug sticker of a pink bear shrugging its shoulders. [I think you just want to talk to me.]
"Bitch," I hiss under my breath before answering. [I don't.]
[You'd better get back to work. There are only five more hours until you're free for the evening.]
I narrow my eyes. Of course, he knows my work schedule too. [Stop stalking me.]
[I'm not. You're predictable. I already know what you'll do next.]
I grit my teeth. [And what's that?]
A pause. Then:
[You'll think about killing me again.]
My response is instant, because he's right. [Always.]
Ever since that first night I ran into him, I've had dreams about him—more than half of them consisting of me actually succeeding at taking his life. Killing him would be a monumental step in my road to taking my uncle's throne.
The three dots blink. Then: [Good. Half your plan is going great.]
I blink. What? What half? […Half?]
My plan is to take his life, and he's not dead. What else is there?
[Yes.] A one-word response. How irritating.
[Which half?] I fire back.
A sticker of a bunny giggling behind its paws. [Guess.]
…Surely, he isn't implying that my seduction is working. I've hardly done anything besides eat dinner and answer his messages. He must be hinting at something else, that asshole.
I slam my head back against the wall and curse under my breath. Why is he doing this? I don't understand, no matter how I think about it. His behavior is erratic and obsessive. I didn't read about him having such a bad personality in his dossier—in fact, it stated the opposite: that he doesn't get attached to things and is exceptionally good at killing people close to him the moment they cross him.
Maybe he's coming at me with a similar plan in mind, to get close to me and then take my life.
Realistically, there's a decent possibility that's the case—but something inside me begs to differ. He wouldn't kill me, at least not yet, because he's far too fascinated.
Ugh! He's fucking with my head!
I should hate this. I should hate him.
…But I don't. I find myself wondering if we'll meet again soon.
I shove the phone back in my purse, walk into the conference room, and smile at the lieutenants like nothing's wrong. It's not like our sworn enemy is spamming me with texts and flirting like there's no tomorrow.