Page 76 of Devil’s Reign

I carry the roses out of the bedroom with the elevator card already tucked into my bra strap—the emerald dress has no pockets, which is a crime—and the men glance up from various positions around the suite as I appear.

“I need a vase for my flowers,” I announce before anyone can say anything. “Is there one here?”

“Not really,” one of them answers.

“Well, guess I’ll have to improvise.” I make my way to the kitchen and start opening cabinets until I find something that might work. A glass pitcher, wide-mouthed and clear.

I rinse it in the sink, then carefully unwrap the paper around the bouquet and place the roses inside, stems first. The flowers stand tall. Too tall. So I pull them back out and start rummaging through the cabinets again. That’s when Boris materializes beside me, crouches by the cabinet beneath the sink, and takes out a pair of scissors.

“Thank you,” I say when he hands them to me. I trim a few inches off the stems and rearrange the flowers until they sit at a reasonable height. It’s not perfect—a proper vase would be better—but it has a certain charm, a too-full, overflowing quality that suits them.

“That looks nice,” says one of the men—Kieran, I think—from behind Boris.

I glance over with a quick smile. A small audience has gathered while I was working.

“Should I have your breakfast brought up now?” Boris asks, and my stomach grumbles in response, but I shake my head.

“Actually, I’d like to have my breakfast in the restaurant downstairs this morning.” I keep my voice easy, matter-of-fact. “The one on the ground floor.”

Boris stares at me like I’ve just suggested walking straight into traffic. His eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. “I beg your⁠—”

“Don’t worry, Vanya already approved it.” I slide the elevator card out of my bra strap and wave it in front of his nose. “He didn’t mention it to you? Silly. But then again, he has a lot on his mind these days, poor thing.”

Boris’s brows pull together, and I can practically see the conflict flashing in his eyes—torn between believing me and following his standing orders. “If you don’t believe me, feel free to call Vanya,” I bluff, pretending to blow out a frustrated breath. I’m betting on what I overheard earlier and hoping he’ll be reluctant to disturb him.

Sure enough, Boris winces. “You have no reason to lie. I’ll assign a few men to go down with us.”

Triumph surges through my veins. It’s hard not to grin, but I swallow the urge. Not yet. This is just the first stage. A test run to build trust so it won't seem suspicious when I demand to go down for lunch on the day of the meeting.

“Of course. That’s exactly what Vanya and I agreed to. You know how protective he can be,” I say lightly.

His eyes hold mine a beat too long, but he only nods, and that's enough.

Within minutes, Boris, Kieran, and a third man named Alan are flanking me as we move down the hall towards the elevator. Kieran calls it, and the doors open. We all step inside, and I tap my keycard against the panel—not because I need to, but because I want to remind them that I have it. When the doors open again, I step onto the ground floor for the first time.

The lobby is grand and beautiful, bigger than I imagined, full of people moving in every direction. Marble floors gleam under the flood of sunlight pouring through the large windows, and crystal chandeliers sparkle high above.

I pause briefly, taking it all in.

I’ve been stuck upstairs for weeks. Now there are voices everywhere—laughter, footsteps, quiet conversations that blend into a lively hum. It feels strange being surrounded by so many people again. Strange… and a little thrilling.

A few looks drift my way, but I realize quickly it’s not me they’re looking at. It’s the three suited men surrounding me, all of them carrying the unmistakable posture of people who are paid to be dangerous. I've grown so used to them over the past few weeks that I've stopped seeing them as intimidating. But down here, in this warm, civilian light, they stand out like a warning sign. I don’t care, though. I finally have a piece of freedom, even if it’s only breakfast downstairs, and I'm going to enjoy every second of it.

Boris leads us to the restaurant—Tavaria, according to the brushed gold lettering above the entrance—and the interior is exactly what the name promises. Warm polished wood, soft lighting, and elegant paintings. The kind of place you don’t walk into without a reservation.

Before we’re fully through the door, a tall man wearing a chef’s cap hurries towards us. His face is flushed from the heat of the kitchen, but when his eyes land on me, they brighten with a recognition that surprises me. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen him before.

He stops in front of me and extends both hands. “I’m Denis, the head chef here at Tavaria. I’ve been sending your meals up to you for the past few weeks.”

Ah.

Boris must have texted the restaurant to let them know we were coming. Now I’m curious what he told them about me to earn this kind of welcome.

I take his hands and shake them. “Nice to meet you, Denis. Your meals are the best I’ve ever had, but please don’t tell my mom I said that.” I give him a wink, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Come, come. I have the best seat in the house just for you.”

He leads us deeper into the restaurant, past several tables where people are quietly enjoying their meals. When we stop, my breath catches a little. An entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass stretches in front of us, and beyond it is the city. It isn’t some postcard view—yellow cabs streaming through traffic, steam curling up from the street vents, people rushing along the sidewalks. But it’s New York. Real, unfiltered New York.