Chapter 8: The Enemy of My Enemy

The man in the doorway was everything I feared and nothing I could have prepared for.

He was tall and lean, with a cruel smile and eyes as cold as a winter sea. He looked from me, half-naked and disheveled, to Matteo, wounded and defenseless. His smile widened.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice dripping with malice. "Isn't this a pretty picture. Hello, little bride. I've been looking for you."

Matteo moved before I could scream. Even with blood seeping through the bandage on his shoulder, he lunged off the bed and put himself between me and the stranger. His voice was a low, dangerous rasp.

"Viktor. You're a long way from Moscow."

The man—Viktor—stepped into the room, and two more men followed him like shadows. My heart slammed against my ribs. I yanked the sheet up to my chest, my fingers trembling.

"Matteo Moretti," Viktor said, spreading his arms as if greeting an old friend. "Still bleeding for a woman who isn't even yours. How romantic." His gaze slid back to me, crawling over my skin like something filthy. "You've caused quite a stir, little bride. Half the Bratva wants you dead. The other half wants to find you first."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Viktor laughed. "Oh, I'm not here for you. Not yet." He nodded at Matteo. "I'm here for him. You're just the bonus."

Matteo didn't flinch. "If you wanted me dead, you'd have shot me from the car."

"I wanted to see your face." Viktor pulled a knife from his jacket, the blade catching the light. "And I wanted you to know it was me. For my brother."

So that was it. Revenge.

"You have two choices," Viktor said, circling us slowly. "You come with us quietly, and the girl lives. Or you fight, and we kill you both. I'm a fair man. I'll give you ten seconds."

Matteo's hand found mine behind his back and squeezed once. A message. I didn't know what it meant.

"Run," he breathed.

"No."

"Run, Aria."

But before either of us could move, Viktor's men surged forward.

What happened next was a blur. Matteo grabbed the lamp off the nightstand and swung it into the first man's face. Bone cracked. The man went down. Matteo spun, catching the second man's arm and twisting until something popped. But he was hurt, and there were three of them, and I could see the blood spreading fast across his bandage.

"Matteo!" I screamed as Viktor's blade caught him across the ribs.

"I said RUN!"

I didn't run. I grabbed the heavy iron candlestick off the dresser and brought it down on Viktor's wrist. He howled, the knife clattering to the floor. For one second, our eyes met—his full of a hatred so pure it stole my breath—and then Matteo shoved me toward the door.

"Go! Find Enzo. Tell him Viktor took the north tunnel!"

I stumbled into the hallway. Gunfire erupted behind me—no, not gunfire. Footsteps. Shouting. The whole house was waking up.

I ran.

Somehow I ended up in the service corridor, the one the staff used to move between floors without being seen. My bare feet slapped against cold stone. I was still wrapped in nothing but a sheet, my lungs burning, my mind screaming.

I rounded a corner and crashed straight into a wall of shadow.

A hand clamped over my mouth before I could scream.

"Shh."

A woman's voice. She pulled me into an alcove, her body pressed against mine, and I smelled cigarettes and expensive perfume. When she lowered her hand, I saw her face—sharp cheekbones, dark hair pulled back tight, a scar running from her jaw to her ear.

"Breathe," she whispered. "They're still looking for you."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who hates Viktor Morozov more than you do." Her eyes flicked past me, checking the corridor. "Listen. I overheard something. Viktor didn't come here just to kill Matteo."

My blood turned to ice. "What do you mean?"

"He's got a man inside this house. A mole. And the plan isn't just to kill the mafia king." She leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear. "It's to make it look like you did it."

The words didn't make sense at first. Then they did, and my stomach dropped.

"No."

"Viktor wants a war. He wants the Moretti family to tear itself apart hunting you. And he needs Matteo dead and you holding the knife—or something close enough." She gripped my arm. "There's a vial in the kitchen safe. Potassium chloride. It's meant to go in his whiskey tonight. Everyone will think the bride poisoned her husband."

I thought of Matteo. Bleeding. Fighting three men just to give me time to escape.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. "You could let it happen."

The woman's smile was cold and sad. "Because Viktor took my sister, too. And I've been waiting twelve years for a reason to burn him down." She pressed something into my palm—a key, small and silver. "The safe. Kitchen, behind the flour bin. If you're as brave as they say, you'll destroy it and warn Matteo. But know this—if you do, Viktor will come for you. Not to scare you. To kill you. The moment you choose him, you become a target."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you walk out that door, take the money I'll give you, and disappear. Matteo dies tonight. Innocent. Betrayed. And you spend the rest of your life knowing you could have saved him."

She vanished down the corridor before I could answer.

I stood there, shaking, the key cutting into my palm. The house groaned and creaked around me, and somewhere far off, I heard Viktor's men calling to each other in Russian.

Matteo had told me to run. He had put his body between me and a knife. He had married me to save me, even if he'd never said it out loud.

But if I went back, I might die.

If I didn't, he definitely would.

I turned and ran toward the kitchen.

And I didn't see the man stepping out of the shadows behind me.