Chapter 147 The Devil in Yellow
Ronan stared at the heavy mahogany double doors, the last threshold Lilia had crossed before vanishing from his view.
That woman.
Everything he had worked for nearly his entire life was vanishing like a bubble bursting in the air. In just a fraction of a moment, all was lost. The wealth and power that had been within his grasp evaporated. That old man—Pa—was supposed to make him the heir, the sole inheritor of one of the most formidable mob empires in Italy.
He could simply kill the old man. He could bend Vittorio to his will and force a change in the documents, transferring everything back to his name. Nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason, a trace of conscience remained within him. He owed Vittorio his life; if it weren't for the Signore, Ronan would still be a starving street child rather than a man standing at the top of the food chain. He was indebted beyond measure.
He hadn't been lying when he said he cared for the man. Vittorio had treated him as a son, never looking at him as the hollow-eyed urchin he had found years ago. However, the rejection stung. In a single glimpse of a long-lost granddaughter, Ronan had been tossed off the table like a discarded gun—useless but for a spare.
He needed to marry her. That was the only way left to access the De Luca fortune. One way or another, he was going to make Lilia his.
The music permeated his senses, yet he couldn't drive away the feeling of unease. He couldn't quite point out what was making him anxious, but there had been a look in Lilia's eyes. He knew she was up to something. He wanted to follow her just to ensure she wasn't planning an escape; if she left, everything he had built would be for nothing.
Ronan turned to follow her path, but a soft hand suddenly slithered onto his arm, halting him. He cursed under his breath and inhaled sharply before looking down at a woman in a sparkling yellow gown. She held her mask by its stem, keeping her face partially hidden, showing only deep blood-red lipstick and the fine bridge of her nose.
“Hello there, handsome,” she flirtatiously crooned, sliding her palm from his arm up to his shoulder and the curve of his neck, tracing the outline of his mask. She was smiling, flashing a set of pearly teeth, but what caught his attention was the hooded, predatory gaze behind the mask.
She was undoubtedly beautiful, he noted, with a voice so sultry it could make any man fall instantly. But Ronan knew better; looks could be deceiving. Some wore the countenance of an angel while harboring the rotting soul of a devil.
“Why, hello, beautiful.” He captured her hand and pressed the back of it to his masked lips, winding her arm around his.
“I’m getting lonely, and the star of the night is nowhere to be found. Would you like to dance?”
A frown formed on his face, mingled with surprise at her straightforwardness. Most women here stayed on the sidelines, batting their lashes and waiting to be asked. This one had the nerves to demand his attention. That took his interest.
“I should be asking the lady,” he rectified, bowing at the waist. “Would you like to dance with me?”
“I would be delighted.” She smiled and tightened her grasp as he steered her through the throng of the crowd and onto the dance floor. The woman removed her mask and handed it to a passing waiter.
Ronan sucked in a sharp breath as he gazed at her. He was right; she was a spectacular sight. The music restarted, flowing through the ballroom, and they began to glide. He noted her nimble feet; she moved as though she were floating, never once missing a step. If he hadn't been so focused on Lilia, he would have asked this woman out the moment the event ended.
They danced—he spun her and lifted her by the waist as he took the lead. However, one question finally pushed through his curiosity. “I haven’t seen you before. May I have the pleasure of your acquaintance...?”
“Sabina.”
“Ah, Sabina. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady. Ronan, at your service.”
He racked his memory for anything that would set off alarm bells—some recognition or a glimmer of information about this woman. But he came up empty-handed.
“I've seen you talking to her. Lilia, was it?”
At first, he didn't know whom she meant, but the mention of Lilia's name piqued his interest immediately.
“Yes, you know her? It’s a long story, actually. But yes, she’s the Signore’s only granddaughter,” he affirmed. He spun her again, catching her waist and bending her back into a deep pose. Her arm wrapped around his shoulders while the other extended outward, their hands clasped tightly.
“Well, that’s interesting. I thought she was a slave pet to a Russian mob kingpin,” she pondered, biting her bottom lip as he pulled her back up. Their faces drew close, and he caught the scent of vanilla on her neck.
“She was, but we saved her.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Ronan leaned forward, dipping his head into the crook of her neck and inhaling her scent deeply through his mask. A smirk stretched across his face as he felt her fine hairs stand up and her spine shudder.
“Saved?” she mused with a titter of sardonic merriment. “How come you think she needed saving?”
That was enough to break his concentration. Ronan pulled back and looked her square in the eyes.
“As you said, she was a slave pet.”
A grin of mischief replaced her smile.
“Oh, I heard rumors. Rumors that turned out to be eerily accurate when I looked into the matter myself. They say she and her master were quite... intimate. Too intimate for a master and slave relationship. She was definitely more than a pet. A lover, perhaps. Deeply.”