Page 9 of Cruel Deception
I step inside, my boots echoing on the marble floor, and try to make sense of the place. It’s a labyrinth of wealth, all crystal chandeliers and velvet drapes, but there’s an edge to it, a shadow that makes my skin prickle.
A figure emerges from the hallway, and my heart stutters. Luca, my fiancé, stands there, his dark hair neatly combed, his suit tailored to perfection. “Miss Charlotte,” he says, his voice calm but formal, gesturing toward a side corridor. “This way.”
He leads me to a dining room that could swallow my grandfather’s house whole.
A long mahogany table dominates the space, surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in deep burgundy.
Two male staff stand like statues behind the chairs, their faces blank, and the walls are lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men—Moretti ancestors, no doubt.
The room screams power, wealth, and history. Last time I was here, still raw from Grandfather’s death, I barely noticed the grandeur. Now it’s overwhelming.
I sit, and Luca takes the chair across from me, his movements deliberate.
He nods, and the staff vanish silently. “Well then, Miss Charlotte,” he says, tone calm but watchful. “It’s our second meeting. I’ll ask you a few things—only answer what you want. You can ask me questions too. This goes both ways.”
Before I can respond, a staff member reappears, setting a plate of seared salmon with a lemon herb sauce and roasted asparagus in front of me.
The same is placed before Luca. The food smells divine, like something from a restaurant I could never afford.
I hesitate, my fork hovering, and Luca’s eyes flick to my untouched plate. I take the hint and start eating, the flavors rich and sharp.
“This will help us get to know each other,” he says, cutting into his salmon with precision. “We’re to be married in two months, after all.”
My heart pounds, and I don’t know why. Luca’s so composed, his voice steady, his demeanor almost too refined for a mafia man.
I expected someone brash, loud, but he’s... restrained, like a man twice his age.
At twenty-nine, with his sharp jaw and dark eyes, he’s undeniably handsome, but his calm unnerves me.
My mind’s racing, not about his questions but about what I came here to say. I need to tell him about my mastectomy, about the scars that changed me.
I thought it’d be easy, but this place—its wealth, its power—has me second-guessing everything.
“I’ll start,” he says, saving me from my stumbling. “What was your childhood like? If you’re comfortable sharing.”
I open my mouth, but the air shifts, heavy and electric. The staff behind us stiffen, their eyes darting to the doorway.
Footsteps echo, and a man steps into the room, his presence like a storm rolling in. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved from marble—sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and piercing blue eyes that seem to see through me.
His dark hair is tousled just enough to look effortless, and a faint scar runs along his left temple, adding a dangerous edge.
He’s dressed in a tailored black suit, but the way he moves, fluid and predatory, screams trouble.
My heart lurches. It’shim. Mr. Hot from the club. The man whose bike I stole.
Luca doesn’t turn, but his voice cuts through the silence. “Cassian.”
Cassian strides forward, not toward Luca but to my side, his gaze locked on me. My pulse raced—not just because he was stunning, but because that kiss at Club Vertigo flashed in my mind.
“Charlotte,” Luca says, oblivious to my panic, “meet my elder brother, Cassian. He runs our operations in Chicago.”
Chicago. The word hits like a bullet. My mother’s in Chicago, trafficked to some coded mafia syndicate.
If Cassian’s the kingpin there, could he know something? Would he help? Doubtful—he looks like he’d rather burn the world than lift a finger for me.
“Pleasure, Charlotte,” Cassian says, his voice low, smooth, and laced with something unhinged, like a blade wrapped in velvet.
He turns and walks away, his aura so commanding it’s like the room bows to him.
