Page 91 of The Devil's Thorn
He shrugs, playing coy now. “All I know is that some names are losing favor, and others… well, they’re climbing. Fast.”
“And who’s climbing?”
“Can’t say.” His grin sharpens. “But let’s just say—someone’s playing all sides. And if they do it right… they’ll own them all.”
My heart stays steady. My face doesn’t move. But my mind sharpens.
Someone playingallsides? That’s not a nobody. That’s someone with reach.Someone like Rafael?
Or someone trying to pull him down?
“Sounds dangerous,” I murmur.
“That’s the best kind of game, sweetheart.”
“And what’s your role in it?”
“Maybe I’m a messenger. Maybe I’m a liability.” He winks. “Or maybe I’m just the drunk idiot with a beautiful woman in front of me.”
“We’ll see.”
We’re still sitting there. Still drinking. Still peeling each other back in layers. But I’m not here for him. I’m here for the truth hiding beneath his arrogance. And I’m going to drag it out, one poisoned word at a time.
The glass in front of me is nearly empty. So is Alessio’s. I raise my hand slowly, catching the eye of a nearby server. Nowords—just a simple gesture. A tilt of my chin. A smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
He understands. Another round.
Alessio leans forward slightly, eyes hazy, breath already sweet with whatever top-shelf garbage they’re pouring into him tonight. But he’s not drunk enough to slur. Not yet. Which means he’s still got secrets buried somewhere behind those teeth.
I just need to dig a little deeper. Or sharper.
“So you were saying,” I murmur, voice soft as smoke, “someone’s pulling strings behind the scenes.”
“Mmhmm.” He takes a slow sip from his nearly empty glass. “All kinds of strings. Russians. Italians. Albanians. It’s like a chessboard out here.”
“And who’s the king?”
He laughs again, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Everyonethinksthey’re the king. But it’s always the ones sitting quiet that turn out to be the real monsters.”
I lean in slightly. Let my shoulder brush his. “And you know who that is?”
He watches me. Really watches me. Like he’s deciding if I’m worth the leak.
“I know someone’s dealing under the table. Trying to pit two families against each other while they walk away with the prize.”
“What prize?”
“Territory. Power. Names.” He shrugs. “It’s always the same prize, sweetheart.”
“But you know who’s doing it,” I press, tone casual, almost bored.
He hesitates. Just enough for me to know I’m close. But not close enough.
So I shift. I let my hand drop under the table. And then—slowly—I rest it on his thigh.
He stiffens slightly, then relaxes as my fingers trail upward, light as air, dragging heat behind them like a promise.
I feel the inhale. Sharp. Shaky. He turns toward me, voice lower now.
