Page 8 of His Prince

My body aches. I’m exhausted and sore, ready to lie in bed for hours, but unable to do so when this is niggling in the back of my mind. Why would he do this? Lie to me all this time, only to walk away? He didn’t need to.

Mikhail maintains his own business, a successful one. He runs an illegal arms trade and launders money here on the East Coast. He doesn’t need my father’s connections or money. And my father doesn’t need him—not necessarily.

The contract between them could have been solidified without marriage. There were other ways to ensure my safety.

I walk past the laundry room and then the dining room, turning down a corridor, all the doors shut. It’s silent in here, cold, and loneliness sweep over me like a tidal wave.

I wish Casey were here with me, so I could have someone to talk to, to smile at, but I gave him the day off, thinking I would be spending it with Mikhail.

How wrong I was.

I push open a door and peer inside. It’s empty, a room with nothing in it.

I close it with a snick and move to the next one. And the next.

I don’t find his office until I open the last door. I would never have known it was his. There are no guards outside the door, nothing grandiose about it. It’s just another room situated at the end of a long hallway.

I step inside and note the lack of light coming in from the windows as I glance around. They must be tinted. The room is dark, no one inside it.

“Mikhail?” I call out, but no one answers.

I huff in frustration as I flick on a light.

I recognize this room as I make my way around it. This is where he sat as he spoke to me all those nights, whispering lies into my ears.

I step up to a bookshelf behind his desk and take in the Russian titles.

He told me about these.

“I brought my books here from my grandfather’s house in Russia, took a piece of my childhood with me when my family moved to America.”

I force my gaze away, rubbing at my chest as I move around the walls. If I know one thing, it’s that these mafia men have a thing for hidden spaces. There’s no one out in the hallways so they must be tucked away inside the walls. If I look hard enough, I’ll find a secret passageway. I’m sure of it.

A good mob boss always has an easy escape in their office so they can come and go as they please.

My fingers slide across the muted wallpaper, digging into the corners of the shelves and baseboards until I find what I’m looking for.

I press on something small and thin tucked away next to the fireplace, and suddenly the wall pops open, a dark space looming before me.

I fucking knew it.

Grabbing my phone, I tap on the flashlight and step inside.

The darkness doesn’t terrify me like it should. It’s what’s lurking in the corners, what they want to keep hidden down here that makes me nervous.

Years ago, my father tried to make me immune to it, tried to harden me by forcing me to watch what they did to people, to their enemies.

It broke something in me, tore it in half.

It’s only recently started to heal.

I can thank my twin brother, Diablo, for that. He made sure to protect me, came alongside me and made my father promise to stop subjecting me to the horrors.

I never set foot down in his catacombs again.

And yet here I am, making my way down a set of damp steps through a dirt tunnel. There’s only one tunnel, it seems—not themaze my dad has—but still, it’s spooky and unlit. And it’s deathly quiet down here. No screams to be heard.

I hold my breath and then exhale as I move forward, unsure where this leads but knowing I need to find out.

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