Chapter 8 The Alibi
The beam of light hits him and time stops.
It doesn't slow down, it just crashes into a wall and leaves me hanging there in the silence, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break them one by one.
It’s Dante.
He stands in the doorway, framed by the darkness of the hall, his hand still resting on the brass knob. He isn't holding a gun. He isn't calling for guards.
He’s just standing there in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking at me with eyes that are cold and flat and terrifyingly calm.
"Turn that off," he says.
His voice is low, a rumble that vibrates through the floorboards and up my legs.
I fumble with the phone. My fingers are numb and useless, slipping over the screen like they don't belong to me anymore.
Turn it off turn it off.
The light dies.
The room plunges back into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. It cuts across the room in sharp, silver lines, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air between us.
He steps inside and closes the door. The click of the latch is the loudest sound in the world. It sounds like a cell door slamming shut.
"Move away from the desk," he commands.
I move. I scramble back until my legs hit the leather couch and I almost trip, my hands coming up instinctively like I can ward him off. I’m cornered. I’m caught. I’m dead.
"I wasn't—" I start, but my voice is a pathetic croak.
"Quiet."
He walks toward me. He moves with a predator's grace, silent and heavy, eating up the space between us until he’s standing right there, looming over me, blocking out the moonlight. I can smell him. Whiskey and cedar and the metallic scent of night air.
"What are you doing in my office, Lilith?"
He doesn't shout. He doesn't rage. He asks the question with a terrifying curiosity, like he’s dissecting a frog and wants to see which nerve makes it twitch. I need a lie. I need a lie right now or I’m going to end up in the basement with the other problems he makes disappear.
"I heard a noise," I say, the words tumbling out too fast, breathless and shaky. "I couldn't sleep. I heard something... upstairs. I thought maybe someone had broken in."
"So you decided to investigate?" He tilts his head, his eyes catching a glint of moonlight. "With a flashlight? In the Don’s private office?"
"I didn't know it was your office. I just... I followed the sound."
"Liar."
The word is soft, almost gentle, but it hits me like a slap.
He reaches out and grabs my chin. His fingers are rough and warm and his grip is iron. He forces my head up, forces me to look at him, to see the absolute lack of mercy in his face.
"You didn't hear a noise. The walls in the servant quarters are thick. And you didn't wander in here by accident."
He glances at the desk. At the fourth drawer. The lockpick, the filed-down spoon handle, is gone, shoved into my pocket in panic, but the evidence is there. Fresh silver scratches on the brass lock where my hand slipped.
"You picked the lock," he says, bringing his gaze back to mine. "Or you tried to."
He steps closer, pressing me back against the couch until I have nowhere to go. I can feel the heat radiating off him, a dangerous, living warmth that makes my skin crawl.
"You're a thief," he says, his voice dripping with disdain. "I expected better. I thought you were smarter than this."
"I'm not a thief," I snap, the fear curdling into a sudden, reckless anger. "I'm a debt. Remember? I'm just an asset you bought."
"Assets don't break into my desk at one in the morning."
He releases my chin with a shove that sends me stumbling back onto the cushions. I catch myself, breathing hard, my hair falling into my face.
"What were you looking for?" he demands. "Cash? Jewels? A way to buy your freedom?"
"Information," I say, seizing on the partial truth because it’s the only thing that might save me. "I wanted to know how much my father really owed. I wanted to know when I get to leave."
He laughs then. A short, sharp sound that has no humor in it. He walks to the desk and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest.
He looks comfortable, like a king holding court for a peasant who dared to steal a loaf of bread.
"You don't get to leave, Lilith. That’s the deal. Your father didn't sell you for a lease. He sold you for a lifetime."
The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.
A lifetime.
"So I'm a prisoner."
"You're under my protection," he corrects. "But protection requires loyalty. And breaking into my office is not loyalty. It’s treason."
He pushes off the desk and stalks back toward me. I shrink back, pressing myself into the leather, wishing the couch would swallow me whole.
"In my world," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, "people lose hands for touching things that don't belong to them."
My stomach twists violently. I stare at his hands. They are large, scarred, capable of terrible violence. I remember the stories. I remember the way my father talked about him. The Devil of Castello Nero.
"Are you going to kill me?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
He stares at me for a long moment. He looks at my shaking hands. He looks at the fear in my eyes. And then he sneers.
"No."
He turns his back on me and walks to the window, looking out at the grounds below.
"Killing you would be a waste. And it would upset Jasmine."
The name hangs between us. Jasmine.
He’s sparing me because of her. Because I made myself useful to his daughter. The strategy worked. It saved my life. But I don't feel triumphant. I feel sick.
He turns back to me, his face in shadow. "But do not mistake my patience for weakness. You are on thin ice, Lilith. If I catch you in here again... if I catch you asking questions that don't concern you..."
He lets the threat dangle.
"Get out."
I blink, stunned that I'm still breathing. "What?"
"Get out. Go back to your room. Lock the door. And stay there until I send for you."
I don't wait. I don't ask if he means it. I scramble off the couch, my boots slipping on the polished floor. I run past him, keeping my head down, keeping my eyes on the door.
But as I pass him, he reaches out and grabs my arm.
It’s fast. Too fast.
He yanks me to a stop and pulls me close, so close our chests almost touch. I look up, gasping, and for a second I think he’s changed his mind, I think he’s going to snap my neck right here.
He holds up his hand, the one gripping my bicep.
The moonlight catches it perfectly. There, on his ring finger.
Silver. Heavy. A square face with a black stone set deep into the metal. The crest of the Caravelli family carved into the onyx.
The ring.
The world tilts. The air rushes out of the room.
It’s the same ring. The exact same ring from the grainy security photo in my father’s safe. The ring I saw on the hand of the man standing over my mother’s body eight years ago.
I stare at it. I can't look away. It’s right there, pressing into my skin, warm from his body heat.
The murder weapon.
"Do we understand each other?" he asks, oblivious to the fact that I’m not listening to his words, I’m listening to the screaming in my head.
I look up at his face. The sharp jaw. The cold eyes. He wore it. He wore it the night he killed her and he’s wearing it now while he threatens me. He’s flaunting it. He’s so arrogant, so untouchable, that he doesn't even bother to hide the blood on his hands.
"Yes," I whisper. "We understand each other."
He lets go of my arm. "Go."
I run.
I run down the hallway, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He did it he did it he did it.
I fly down the stairs, ignoring the noise, ignoring the shadows. I make it to the servants' wing and slam my door, locking it with shaking fingers. I slide the deadbolt. I drag my chair under the handle. I collapse onto the floor, gasping for air, my back pressed against the wood.
I failed. I didn't get the files. I didn't get the written proof.
But I got something better.
I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, rocking back and forth in the dark. I can still feel the pressure of his fingers on my arm. I can still see the glint of silver in the moonlight.
I don't need a file. I don't need a report.
I looked the monster in the eye and saw the mark of his sin. There is no doubt anymore. No questions. No maybe.
Dante Caravelli killed my mother. And I am going to make him suffer for it.