Page 17 of Twisted Devotion

“I need you to get dressed,” Marco says, his voice clipped. It’s calm on the surface but has a tautness beneath it. Agitation. “Wear something extra nice today. I’m sending a car.”

I open my mouth to protest, to tell him I’m in no condition to be trotted out like a doll again, but the line goes dead before I can get a word in. Typical Marco.

I stare at the phone for a long moment, my chest tight with frustration. But I know him too well to waste time questioning. He never asks; he orders.

I drag myself to the sink, splash cold water on my face, and freshen up before heading to the bedroom. The closet is stuffed with expensive, tailored, impersonal clothes Marco sent after the fire. He replaced everything I’d lost, yet he hasn’t bothered to see me since.

My fingers skim the hangers, pausing on a black satin dress. It’s sleek and fitted, with a slit that rides scandalously high. The kind of dress that screams confidence, even if I don’t feel it. Marco wants perfection? Fine, I’ll give him perfection.

The dress is so tight I can barely breathe, each inhale a conscious effort. I add diamond studs, smooth my hair into soft waves, and paint my lips a bold red. Concealer hides the exhaustion etched under my eyes but not the hollowness I feel inside.

The knock comes, sharp and precise. I steel myself, expecting one of Marco’s drivers.

Instead, my brother himself stands in the doorway, wearing a tailored navy suit. His dark hair is slicked back, his features as sharp and unreadable as ever.

“You’re driving me?” I ask, surprised. Marco doesn’t do the mundane.

He scans me from head to toe, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “You look fine. Let’s go.”

The car ride is suffocating. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken tension. Marco grips the wheel tightly, his knuckles pale against the leather. He doesn’t explain, and I don’t ask.

The restaurant is discreet, tucked away on a narrow street. The wooden sign above the entrance bears Japanese characters, understated but elegant. Inside, the scent of cedar and soy mingle in the cool air.

A hostess bows and leads us to a private room partitioned by sliding paper doors. Marco slides one open and gestures for me to step inside.

“Stay here,” he says, his tone brooking no argument.

“What’s going on?”

“Just wait.” He closes the door before I can press him further.

I sink onto a cushion by the low table, my mind spinning. The quiet amplifies everything—my breathing, my pulse, the nagging sense that something is very, very wrong.

Marco’s business is dangerous; I’ve always known that. But this? The explosion, the fire, and now this cryptic meeting? It’s spiraling out of control, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m caught in the middle of something far bigger than I understand.

The minutes crawl, each one thick with unease. The room feels smaller with every passing second, the silence pressing in like a vice. My thoughts churn, replaying the explosion, the black van, and the flames reflected in the glass.

I can’t take it anymore.

Pushing to my feet, I slide the door open and enter the hallway. The wooden floor creaks under my heels, the air colder out here—or maybe it’s just me.

I turn a corner and freeze.

Marco is in another room, his back to me. He’s not alone.

Sitting across from him, radiating smug arrogance, is a man I never thought I’d see again.

Nicolas fucking Paolo.

My blood runs cold.

What the hell is going on?

I blink, dragging my hand across my eyes, convinced I must be imagining things. But no matter how hard I rub, the scene doesn’t change. My brother is sitting with the man who tried to kill me—or at least the man I suspect of it.

Nicolas Paolo.

His cold, calculating eyes lock onto mine, and I freeze in the doorway, my mind racing to make sense of this surreal betrayal. Nicolas doesn’t flinch. His face is infuriatingly calm, but his gaze never leaves mine. Slowly, Marco stops talking, his shoulders slagging like a man caught in a lie.

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