THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-THREE

The sunrise looked like a wound splitting open across the sky.

I sat at the marble kitchen island, both hands wrapped tightly around a steaming mug of black coffee I hadn’t touched. My head pounded—less from fatigue and more from the storm inside me that hadn’t eased since last night. The red card. The cracked window. The missing necklace.

Marco had been inside that room. And I never even heard him.

I was still in the same oversized shirt I’d worn to bed, sleeves swallowing my arms. I hadn't changed. I hadn't slept. Just sat here like a statue with blood that wouldn’t warm, even with all the heat in the penthouse.

I heard him before I saw him. The quiet pad of expensive shoes across polished wood. Wesley.

He stepped into the kitchen, crisp in black slacks and a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up. Hair still damp from the shower. A version of power that looked effortless.

But it wasn’t his body that made my chest tighten. It was the silence that wrapped around us as he stood across from me, watching.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice low.

I took a slow sip of the coffee, bitter on my tongue. “Didn’t sleep.”

He didn’t ask why. Maybe he already knew something was off. His gaze skimmed me, stopping at the faint bruised hollows beneath my eyes, the tightness in my shoulders.

I looked away first.

He moved to the counter, poured himself a shot of espresso from the sleek chrome machine. It hissed like it was annoyed by the tension between us.

We didn’t talk about the night before. Not about the kiss, not about the necklace. Especially not about how he dismissed it like it meant nothing.

I kept my voice even. “Do you have meetings today?”

“A few.” He downed the espresso. “Then I’m checking on the south docks. Things are shifting.”

“Shifting?”

He looked at me, unreadable. “Territory. Timelines. Reinforcements.”

I nodded slowly. Mafia talk. The background hum of his world. But all I could hear was the sound of my bedroom window creaking open in my mind.

Tell him, a voice inside me whispered. Tell him Marco was there.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

I didn’t want to be the girl who woke up scared. Who needed rescuing. Who was handled like something fragile and helpless. If I told Wesley, he’d take over. He’d move me, guard me, probably even lock me away. That necklace wasn’t protection. It was a collar.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, catching the way his gaze lingered too long.

He didn’t believe me. But he didn’t push. Just gave a short nod and stepped away, pulling out his phone and murmuring something sharp in Italian as he walked toward the study.

As soon as he disappeared, I exhaled—too fast.

I stared down at my cup. My hands were trembling.

I thought about the red card again. I’d hidden it beneath a drawer liner in the closet, like burying it would erase the fear it planted in me. But it was still there, itching under my skin.

And the necklace… He took it. Marco stole it right off the nightstand, like it was a trophy.

Like he was marking me again.

My phone buzzed beside me on the counter. I jumped. The screen flashed with a new message—from an unknown number.

Just six words:

“Loyalty looks better on you in gold.”

The cup slipped from my hands and shattered against the floor.

The phone sat on the carved mahogany table like a coiled snake, silent and slick with menace.

I paced the length of the library, arms wrapped tightly around myself, trying to still the shake in my hands. The message was still burned into my brain—Loyalty looks better on you in gold.

Marco wasn’t just playing games anymore. He was making statements. Subtle, precise violations meant to remind me I’d never left his reach.

The worst part? I believed him.

My phone remained exactly where I’d left it. Face down. Screen black. But it felt… wrong. Like it had teeth. I should’ve smashed it with the nearest paperweight, but part of me needed to know. If he could get into my room, what made me think he hadn’t crawled inside my tech, too?

I snatched it up with a grimace and began tapping through settings. Battery usage. App permissions. Location history.

Nothing obvious. But I wasn’t exactly a tech expert.

I was so lost in it I didn’t hear Roy until he spoke.

“Ms. Bernardi?”

I flinched hard, spinning around. He stood just inside the doorway, hands behind his back. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. Too sharp.

“Don’t sneak up on people like that,” I snapped, trying to cover the fact that my pulse had spiked. He didn’t apologize. Just stepped inside slowly.

“Is everything alright?”

No. Not remotely. But I wasn’t ready to hand over the full truth. Not yet.

I hesitated, then held the phone up. “Hypothetically… if someone were to track me—through this—how would I know?”

His brows lifted just slightly. “Hypothetically?”

I gave him a look. “Roy.”

He nodded once, then stepped forward. “May I?”

I handed it over reluctantly. He pulled a small black device from his jacket—something I hadn’t seen before. Looked like a lighter, but sleeker. He powered it on, scanned the phone with practiced movements. The screen lit up in a pale blue glow.

He frowned.

“There’s a signal emitting from this. Low-frequency. Hidden beneath system diagnostics. It’s either a tracker… or something worse.”

My stomach turned.

“Could it be Wesley?” I asked, throat dry.

Roy hesitated, then shook his head. “No. He doesn’t operate in secrets when it comes to security. If he wanted to track you, he’d make you carry the damn thing with a red bow on it.”

I sat down heavily in the velvet reading chair, the room suddenly too warm, too tight.

“So it’s Marco.”

It wasn’t a question.

Roy didn’t answer, but the silence did.

“He’s watching me,” I whispered.

Roy knelt in front of me, phone still in hand. “I can disable it. Block the signal or scramble it entirely. He won’t be able to see anything after that.”

I considered it. The smart thing to do was say yes. But…

“What if he notices?” I said slowly. “What if that’s what he’s waiting for?”

Roy’s jaw flexed. He didn’t argue.

“Don’t tell Wesley,” I added.

He looked up at me, eyes unreadable. “He won’t like being kept in the dark.”

“Too bad. I’m tired of being handled like I’m breakable.”

He stood, handing me the phone back. “Alright. I’ll keep your secret—for now.”

As he turned to leave, his voice dropped lower. “But he’s escalating, Ms. Bernardi. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

I lifted my chin. “It’s Danvers now. My maiden name. I don’t go by Bernardi anymore. Just call me Catrina, Roy.”

Roy paused, something softening in his expression. “Catrina, then. I’ll try.”

He left me there, standing beneath the towering windows, dusk bleeding into the sky like a bruise spreading beneath glass. The library felt colder now. The shadows heavier.

I stared at my reflection in the glass, whispering the name I hadn’t said in years.

Catrina Danvers.

But even in this mansion, cloaked in all of Wesley’s power, the name didn’t feel like a shield. Not when Marco already knew where to find me.

The west wing of Marco's estate always felt a little forgotten.

The hallways were wider, colder. No security cameras blinked from corners. The air itself felt still, untouched by the warmth that spilled into the rest of the house. Wesley avoided this part of the estate—said it reminded him of ghosts. Maybe that’s why I came here.

I wandered without purpose, fingers brushing over old portraits and polished wood. Restless didn’t even begin to cover it. I was a wire pulled taut, stretched between silence and dread. Roy’s words echoed in my head, but I couldn’t sit still in the main rooms anymore—not with Wesley's eyes always finding me.

I ended up in a music room near the end of the hall. The door creaked when I opened it, releasing the faint smell of dust and old polish.

Inside, a baby grand piano waited beneath a sheet, half-covered in yellowed music scores. Heavy curtains were drawn shut, the only light coming from a stained-glass sconce humming softly in the corner.

I peeled the sheet back from the keys and sat down slowly. My fingers hovered, then lowered.

A chord.

Then another.

My body remembered what my mind had long buried. A melody rose. Hesitant. Mournful.

I didn’t know how long I played. But for a moment, the tension in my chest loosened. My lungs worked. My shoulders dropped.

Until it hit me.

A smell.

Not the dry scent of old fabric. Not the sweet bite of candlewax.

No—this was sharp. Acrid.

Wood smoke.

I stopped playing.

The silence was sudden and loud. I stood, heart already thudding, and walked to the door. When I opened it, a slow, creeping curl of smoke licked along the ceiling.

My breath caught. The hallway looked normal—almost. But there was something off. A fuzziness in the air. A strange distortion.

“Hello?” I called, voice cracking. “Is anyone out here?”

No response.

I moved toward the hallway console—an emergency screen where security feeds flickered for each wing. Static danced across it. Grainy. Unreadable.

Something's wrong.

The smoke thickened. My throat scratched. I turned to go—but stopped, cursing under my breath.

My phone.

It was still in the music room.

I ran back, coughing now. The edges of the room were growing hazy. It wasn’t an inferno, not yet—but it was smart. Placed. Controlled. Like someone had known where I’d go. Knew just how long I’d stay.

I found my phone on the piano bench.

And just beneath it—something else.

A charred scrap of cardstock. Still smoldering at the corners. No wax seal this time. Just a single word, scorched into the surface like it had been branded.

RUN.

I staggered back.

The alarms screamed to life—sharp and sudden. Red lights flared overhead. But the sprinklers didn’t trigger. Not yet. The system was lagging, or overridden. Either way, no water fell.

Smoke coiled through the vents now, licking down the walls like fingers. The heat was building—fast.

I clutched my phone and bolted.

My lungs burned. I passed a mirror and barely recognized myself—wild-eyed, hair clinging to damp skin. My heels skidded on marble as I veered toward the central staircase.

The whole wing was waking up with fire.

But somewhere inside me, past the terror, past the panic, something else lit up.

Anger.

This wasn’t chaos.

It was precision.

By the time I made it to the exit doors, I already knew.

The fire was never meant to kill me. Just to remind me how easily he could.