Page 7 of Cruel Deception
It’s a world of excess, a stark contrast to the sagging floorboards and cobwebs I called home. I scan the room, expecting Vincent to burst out, his lopsided grin ready to tackle me in a hug. But it’s empty, silent except for the faint hum of wealth.
My father appears at the top of the grand staircase, his presence sucking the air from the room. “Where’s Vincent?” I demand, my voice sharp.
He descends, casual as if we’re discussing the weather. “He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s leading my men on a mission.”
I storm toward him, fury igniting in my chest. “You sent aseventeen-year-oldon a mission? What kind of mission, huh? Or do you just enjoy risking his life?”
“He’s my heir,” he says, his tone flat, bored. “This is his training. The second room in the west wing is yours. Go.”
I step closer, my voice low and venomous. “If anything happens to him, I swear I’ll make you pay. You’ll wish you never dragged me back here.”
His eyes harden, his voice dropping to a growl. “You’ll do nothing, Charlotte. Go to your room and stop acting like a child.” He turns toward the bar, then pauses. “And Nico’s not just your driver. He’s your bodyguard. He goes where you go.”
My stomach twists. “Youknewhe was my ex, didn’t you?”
He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a flick. “Does it matter?”
I glare, my nails digging into my palms. “I’ve survived ten years without a bodyguard. Why now?”
He exhales a cloud of smoke, staring at the chandelier like I’m not worth his time. “Before, you were nothing—no money, no name. Now you’re in my house, my daughter. My enemies will see you as a way to get to me.”
I scoff, bitter. “Like I mean anything to you.”
He doesn’t answer, just keeps smoking, his gaze distant.
I grab my bag and storm off, heading to the west wing. The room is pristine—crisp white sheets, a polished mahogany bed, an empty wardrobe screaming wealth. But it’s sterile, cold, like a crypt dressed in luxury. I’d trade it for Grandfather’s creaky house in a heartbeat.
I drop my bag and head to the shower, the hot water doing little to wash away the anger coiled in my chest.
My father thinks he can buy me with this? Exile me for a decade, then play the caring parent? Bullshit. I change into my usual—jeans and a faded tee—ignoring the silky nightgown folded neatly by the wardrobe. I don’t do frills. Never have.
Sitting on the bed, I pull out the stolen file, its edges worn from my grip.
My hands tremble as I spread the pages across the comforter. The leads are cryptic, a maze of codes and initials. One line chills me: my mother was trafficked to a mafia syndicate in Chicago, but their name is buried in a string of letters—XVR, no vowels,no context. Another note mentions a “safe house” in a coded address, untraceable without more.
The final clue is a date, three years ago, tied to a shipment of “assets” to an unknown buyer. My mother’s name—Seraphina—appears once, scrawled in the margin like an afterthought.
I rake my hands through my hair, frustration burning my throat. I can’t crack this alone.
The codes are too complex, the leads too vague. I need someone who knows the underworld, someone who can decode this mess and point me to the Chicago syndicate. But who? I slam the file shut, shoving it under the mattress, my chest tight with the weight of it all.
Lying back, I stare at the ceiling, my mind drifting to my mother. Is she out there, suffering? I picture the worst—her chained in some dank basement, used and broken by men who see her as property.
Or maybe she’s a hollow shell, forced to serve, her spirit crushed. Or worse, maybe she’s alive but doesn’t want to be, trapped in a life worse than death. My heart aches, a dull throb that makes it hard to breathe. I don’t realize I’ve drifted off until sunlight stabs my eyes.
I wake late, disoriented, the clock reading 9:10 a.m.
Shit. I’m supposed to meet Luca, my fiancé, at the Moretti mansion at 9:00.
We set this date two months ago, after I signed the marriage contract, our only meeting since.
Something about that name—Moretti—never sat right with me. But I didn’t have the luxury of questioning it. Not yet.
He’d been calm, reserved, his dark eyes giving nothing away. I don’t know if he likes me, and I don’t care—yet. This is for Grandfather’s wish, not love.
I scramble out of bed, rushing to the bathroom.
In the shower, I’m careful, avoiding the bandages over my chest, the scars from the mastectomy still tender.
