Page 16 of From Rome, With Hate

“Whatever, Holt.” I punch him in the arm before slipping on my other shoe, glancing between him and Selene. “How was your date?”

“Great.” Holt grins. “When I wasn’t needing to tell my wife to put her phone down to stop her from messaging you every second.”

“You’ll get better about it.” I glance at Selene before turning back to my brother. “Well, that’s what I suspect, anyway.”

“Hopefully.” Holt loosens his tie, getting comfortable. That’s my cue to leave.

“I should go.” I give my brother a quick hug goodbye, pecking him on the cheek.

“Hey, sorry London and I couldn’t go out with you this week,” Selene says. “We should plan a night out before Charleigh gets back. Then again when she’s home.”

“Sounds perfect.” I plaster on a smile, repeating the same response to Selene as I did Charleigh.

I blow a kiss to Selene and Luca before slipping out the door, only exhaling once I’m safely inside the elevator. I lean against the mirrored wall and look up, closing my eyes. I’m itching for something—something to happen, to change. Over the years, I’ve searched for something that will make this feeling go away. One that can erase my past and bring me happiness.

The occasional one-night stand.

A year of casual dating.

Some wanted to take it to the next level, only for me to back out before it got to that point.

Organizing and running charity fundraisers.

Shopping and going out.

Anything to fill this void. Anything to free me from this constant ache, even if it’s fleeting.

But in this moment, leaving my brother’s apartment alone, only one of those options feels like it might do the trick. When I leave Holt and Selene’s building, my driver is waiting for me out front. I slip into the backseat of my car and ask him to drop me off at home to change before taking me to the club closest to my apartment.

One I knowhedoesn’t own.

I’m not foolish, though. I know this will never end. He’ll never claim his debt, and I will never get what I want.

This is my life.

FIVE

ROME

The VIP lounge still reeks of bleach. I’ve tried everything to mask the scent: air freshener, cologne, incense. None of them have worked.

It could just be me. Everywhere I go, the scent of bleach mixed with freshly-spent gun powder invades my nostrils.

And blood. Nearly forgot to mention the fucking metallic, coppery scent of blood.

It’s been two weeks, but it feels like only minutes.

I bring my hand to my throat and gently massage my fingers over the still-bruised skin. I’ve spent my days trying to slip back into as normal of a life as possible by running my various clubs and hotels around the city, attending board meetings, flying around the country on my private jet for various business conferences. But none of it has kept the ghosts of what happened weeks ago from haunting me.

“You sure you’re ready to reopen the VIP lounge tonight?” Marcus asks from where he’s standing on the opposite side of my expansive, mahogany-lacquered desk in my office at Club Verona.

“Rhys assured me he has the best cleaning crew for situations such as the one that happened there,” I mutter, scrolling through my phone.

I type Kingsten Capuleti into the search bar again, hoping I’ll find some buried article about what he’s been up to lately. Ever since he retired from his political career, he’s stayed out of the limelight. I’m just sorry the fucker died before I found out who hired him.

I’ve mentally poured over everyone I’ve ever met over the course of my life who would have the same tattoo as mine, and no one jumps out as my attacker. I’m in the middle of flipping through the various search results when an unknown number flashes across my screen. I answer it.

“Montgomery.” Rhys’s voice hits my ear.