Chapter 9 Midnight at Pier Twelve
••Luciana••
"You should breathe, you know." Antonio glanced at me.
I am breathing,” I muttered, though my fingers clenched the hem of my coat.
He snorted softly. “If you say so.”
We just arrived at the Orlov estate. I sat in silence beside Antonio as the car passed through the tall gates. Guards stood lined along the driveway.
The car halted in front of the main entrance. Two men stepped forward immediately, opening the doors with a stiffness that matched the cold air.
I stepped out, my chin lifted, and spine straight. I refused to look intimidated, even though my stomach twisted at the thought of entering Adrian’s home… now Roman's home.
Inside, the halls were wide and dimly lit. A guard began leading us down the corridor toward the meeting room.
Halfway there, someone rounded the corner too quickly. A man in black brushed past my shoulder, his hand grazing my coat.
Apologies, Princess," he muttered without lifting his eyes.
Antonio stopped, frowning slightly as the man disappeared down another hallway.
“That was odd. They’re usually more disciplined.”
“It’s fine,” I said, brushing off my coat. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Antonio didn’t look convinced, but he followed.
We were led through tall double doors into a living room that felt too large, too polished,and too cold. Roman stood near the windows, hands in his pockets, and expression unreadable. His father, Don Lorenzo, sat like a king on his throne — his gaze sharp enough to peel a lie apart.
“Princess Luciana. Antonio,” he greeted. “Let us begin.”
Antonio and I took our seats opposite him. Roman stayed standing at first, then moved to sit beside his father after a short nod.
When Don Lorenzo finally spoke the words, the air seemed to still.
“The wedding will proceed as planned,” he said. “The alliance stands. Only the groom changes.”
My hand tightened on the stem of my wine glass.
“With all due respect, ” I said softly, “marriage is not an object you can exchange like a chess piece.”
His eyes narrowed. “This is not sentiment, Princess. It is survival. Your father agrees.”
My jaw clenched, but my voice remained calm. “Then I suppose I should congratulate myself. I’ll be the first bride to mourn and marry in the same season.”
A tense silence followed. Then, unexpectedly, Roman’s voice — low, deliberate.
“She deserves time,” he said, eyes still fixed on his glass.
Don Lorenzo's head turned sharply, but Roman didn’t back down. “If she’s to marry me, it should not be in the shadow of a funeral.”
I glanced at him, really looked this time.
The man who had silently saved me at the club now defended me, not out of sympathy, but principle.
His Father relented with a sigh. “Very well. The engagement will be announced formally next month. Preparations will begin immediately.”
I inclined my head. “Then you have my cooperation, sire.”
My words were courteous, but my tone left no doubt — my cooperation had limits.
The meeting ended.
I stepped out quickly, the click of my heels echoing down the corridor. Roman was a few steps ahead.
I should thank him, I told myself.
Even if he hadn’t intervened at the club, I would have handled those men, but he did intervene.
And in there, with his father watching, he still stood up for me.
I caught up to him.
“Roman,” I called softly.
He paused.
“I… wanted to thank you,” I said. “For what you did today. And that night.”
His gaze flickered to me, unreadable as always, before he gave a single nod.
“Until our engagement day, Mr Orlov,” I added, my chin raised.
“Until then, Princess,” he replied.
I walked away first, trying to keep my heart steady.
But the air between us felt changed; subtly, like a flame catching onto the edge of dry wood.
Antonio met my eyes in the hall. He fell into step with me without a word, as if speech might break whatever fragile thing had started between Roman and me.
“You okay?” he asked after a few long strides.
“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice sounded thin even to me.
He snorted. “You’re never fine. But fine is what you say when you don’t want to explain.”
We reached the front door. A servant held it open for us, dust motes drifting in the shaft of sun.
“You looked at him longer than usual,” Antonio said, half teasing, half warning.
I scowled. “That’s not true.”
He grinned. “Uh-huh. Sure. Still, he did something in there. He put himself on the line.”
“I would have handled those men,” I said, mostly to convince myself.
“And you probably would have,” he agreed. “But he helped. And he spoke for you in front of his father. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s nothing I asked for.” My fingers knotted into the fabric at my sleeve. “I don’t owe him anything.”
“No,” Antonio said quietly. “But maybe you don’t have to hate him so hard. Hate is heavy. You don’t need more weight.”
His voice surprised me — softer than his usual jab. For a moment I considered telling him about the way Roman moved, the way he disappeared like smoke, the way something in the quiet of the club felt like an answer I didn’t want to claim.
Instead I let the silence sit between us.
We climbed into the car. Antonio started the engine and glanced at me. “You want me to drive you home, or should I take you somewhere else first? A coffee? Or some Ice cream? Anything.”
“Home,” I said. “Now.”
He nodded and pulled away. The city blurred at the edges as we drove. The conversation drifted to small things — the weather, a joke about father’s expression and safe topics that kept the harder ones from breaking through.
When he slowed at the villa gates, Antonio reached over and nudged my coat aside to get my seatbelt. His fingers brushed my pocket and stopped.
“What?” I asked.
He frowned and pulled something small out — a folded scrap of paper, damp from the carriage. He handed it to me.
I unfolded it with careful fingers. The words stared up at me, written in a hurried hand:
MEET ME AT PIER TWELVE, MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE.
My stomach dropped.
“Who would leave me a note?” I whispered.
Antonio didn’t answer. His jaw had gone tight. He looked at the road, then back at me, and his voice was very small.
“Don’t tell Father. Not yet.”
The car rolled forward into the night. I held the scrap in my hand and felt the cold ink burn like a brand against my palm.
Someone wanted me at the docks.
I had no idea whether it was trap or truth.
But midnight was hours away.