Page 57 of Crimson Fate

“Amelia did have good taste in chocolate,” Eva murmurs, her voice a tender note against the quiet backdrop of the expansive kitchen.

“Have you talked to my sister lately?”

Eva shrugs. “A little here and there, but she seems very preoccupied, so I’m trying to give her space to figure out her new situation.”

I chuff. “Yeah, situation.”

Eva perches on a stool at the island, a curious glint in her eyes that says she’s not just here for the sweets. “Soooo,” she draws out the word with a playful tone. “While I love talking about your sister, what I really want to talk about it you. Tell me about Gia.”

My hand pauses midair, fingers grazing the cool metal handle of the fridge. It’s unexpected how her mention of Gia tightens my chest, squeezing like a vise. “Gia is... complicated,” I say carefully, reluctant to unravel threads best left untouched.

Eva tilts her head, dark curls tumbling over one shoulder as she counters, “Complicated, huh? Sounds like a story worth hearing.” Her tone has a playful lilt, but her unwavering gaze is searching.

“Maybe some other time,” I deflect, grabbing the milk from the fridge before making my way over to the pantry and locating the graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars. I toss a bar in Eva’s direction, and she catches it with ease, her laughter a silvery peal that banishes the somber mood I’ve inadvertently cast.

“Fine, keep your secrets, Don Corleone,” she teases, unwrapping the chocolate with nimble fingers. Her following words are softer, teasing still but edged with something else, something deeper. “But you know, I never took you for the kind of man who’d take a woman away for the weekend, let alone actually consider marrying her, no matter the reasons behind it. Changing your ways, Vincent?”

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms and trying to shield myself from the unexpected jab of truth in her jest. My reputation as a playboy is well-earned; attachments are liabilities I can’t afford. “People change,” I respond, the admission gruffer than intended. The thought is unsettling, foreign even, like wearing another man’s suit—tailored but unfamiliar.

“Or maybe they find a reason to,” she retorts, grabbing the rest of the supplies to prepare the s’mores. I hand her two plates to build the treats before carrying them to the microwave.

“Maybe,” I concede, feeling the corners of my mouth twitch into a reluctant smile. Her disarming presence tears down walls I’ve spent years fortifying. The realization is as startling as it is undeniable. When I was with Gia, images of Eva or recollections of her words haunted my thoughts, but why? She has become one of my most trusted friends, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to get her out of my mind.

The cool marble of the kitchen island is a stark contrast to the warmth bubbling up in my chest as Eva leans against it, her gaze curious and probing. I place the plates containing the now heated s’mores in front of us, the marshmallows blown so out of proportion by the process they have pushed off the top cracker and created a sticky, gooey mess on the plate.

“I guess I put them in too long,” I grimace.

She laughs. “They’ll still taste as good as if they looked pretty,” she remarks, taking a bite. She closes her eyes and moans in delight, and the sound stirs a desire within me. I push the feeling aside and watch as she licks the sticky goodness off her fingers. “And this way, we get to clean up the deliciousness from our fingers when we’re done,” she says as she laughs, and a few stray crumbs tumble out of her mouth.

In that instant, I get a flash in my mind of her licking the marshmallow stickiness from my fingers. God, I bite at my lip as I think of all of the body parts of hers I would like to lick marshmallows off.

“Vincent.” Her voice, soft with seriousness, breaks through the forbidden fantasies playing out in my thoughts. “What do you see for yourself, you know, in the future?”

I shift, discomforted by the vulnerability of the question. I see licking you all over, I think to myself before a pang of guilt hits me in the gut. Last night I was fucking Gia, and here I am, knowing I have to break a promise to marry her, kill her father, and thinking about messing around with one of my closest friends. Something is truly wrong with my brain. “Wow, this just got heavy,” I finally force myself to say in a teasing tone.

She giggles. “No, I’m serious. Six months ago, I would have said there was no way Vincent King would ever consider getting married, and now here you are. If Anthony hadn’t betrayed you, I think you may have actually gone through with it and married Gia.”

“I don’t know about that,” I deflect the statement. Eva was right, though. I was seriously considering marrying Gia, but stepping back and looking at it from the perspective of what I know now, I think it could have been the biggest mistake of my life. What did I actually know about her? That she grew up in the life? If anything, that should make me leery of her. Look how my own father hid things from me. “I think I just realized that I want... to be different from him—from my dad.” The words scrape out, raw and revealing.

I never speak of my father, the late don, a man respected and feared, but not for the reasons I wish to be. “He left a legacy, sure. But it’s tainted, twisted by his own vices. He had no issues lying to his own children about their mother. He cheated on his wife, which resulted in my half-brother, Maxim. To say he was a flawed man would be putting it mildly.”

Eva nods, absorbing this confession. She reaches out, brushing her fingers against the back of my hand in a gesture so fleeting yet laden with empathy. “But isn’t that behavior kind of standard in your world?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not judging or anything. It just seems like most of the men in your organization have women outside their marriages,” she explains.

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s why I’ve always been so against marriage. I don’t see the point in marrying someone only to continue doing whatever the fuck I want with whoever I want. Why bother getting married in the first place?”

“That’s fair,” she says. “So what kind of legacy do you want to leave?”

Her touch ignites a trail of fire, and I turn my hand over, clasping hers briefly before releasing it. The small contact feels monumental. “I want a wife who rules with me. I want men who want to serve me out of respect and not just fear,” I admit, staring down at our hands, an unspoken promise forming between us.

“Is that something you think can actually happen in your type of life?” she inquires, squeezing my hand before letting go completely.

“Fuck. I honestly have no idea. What I do know is that I want safety—for my family and those under my protection.” My voice grows firmer with conviction.

She smiles softly, her presence a balm to the usual chaos of my thoughts. “That sounds like a future worth fighting for.”

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