Page 33 of Cruel Deception
My phone buzzes, a strange number flashing.
I stare at it, frozen. Then answer, my voice weary. “Hello?”
“Charlotte.” The voice is calm, familiar, a lifeline in the dark.
I bolt upright, my heart lurching. “Vincent?” My brother’s name is a prayer, a hope I’ve clung to. “Is that you?”
“Yeah. It’s me,” came his calm voice, achingly familiar.
“Oh my God!” I scrambled fully upright, my chest pounding. “Vincent, where have you been? Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m home. Just got in. Imagine my surprise, finding out you married a Moretti.”
I exhaled a shaky laugh. “Yeah... it’s a long story. I would’ve told you if I knew where you were. Are you really okay?”
“Alive. In one piece. Can I come see you?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice breaking. “I’ll text you the address. Come tomorrow, noon?”
“Done,” he says. “See you then.”
The call ends, and I exhale, a weight lifting.
Vincent’s alive, safe.
I thought my father had caged him, or worse.
Thank God.
I stand, peeling off the Vera Wang gown, its organza and lace a reminder of the altar’s betrayal.
In the bathroom, I shower, letting the hot water rinse away the day’s terror, then slip into a Gucci silk dress from the closet—emerald green, soft against my scars, a choice that feels like defiance.
I step into the penthouse’s main living room, its pink walls a cruel echo of my childhood dreams, now tainted by Cassian’s shadow.
The absence of guards unsettles me—mafia men like Cassian thrive on security, their world a minefield of betrayal. Why is this place so empty?
Where were the soldiers? The security? No mafia boss lived unguarded—unless he believed he was untouchable.
The kitchen stopped me cold.
It looked more like a luxury supermarket than a home kitchen. Gleaming marble counters, rows of spices alphabetically arranged, every top-shelf appliance imaginable. Everything I’d ever wanted in a kitchen.
I used to help Grandfather cook his favorite meal—beef stew with sweet red wine and rosemary. He always said I had a chef’s hands. I used to dream of a kitchen like this.
I made myself a coffee, methodical in the process: grind, tamp, pour, stir. The familiarity calmed me. I carried the cup to the living room, curled up on the oversized three-seater couch, and turned on the TV.
Just as a soft indie song played in the background, I heard the front door creak.
Cassian?
I freeze.
I turned off the TV, holding my breath.
The creak stops, replaced by silence, heavy and wrong.
My pulse spikes—no guards, no cameras here.
