Page 10 of Wicked Bloodlines

I stepped out into the damp evening air, the hem of my dress catching a fine mist. Another man retrieved my suitcase from the trunk and set it at the rear of the car where yet another man took it away. I had to clench my fists to keep from telling him to bring it back.

I took a breath before acknowledging Matteo. “Yes, sir.” I kept my eyes down. The last thing I needed to do was to anger this man.

“You’ll come with me, Miss Marchesi.” Matteo didn’t wait to see if I followed him.

I walked toward the entrance with my chin up and my stomach in a tight knot. The flagstones were slick with rain, and my heels wanted to find every treacherous spot, but I refused to slow down, refused to look anything less than like I belonged here. Matteo’s gaze swept over me as I approached, a cold, clinical assessment that started at my shoes and traveled upward. I remembered the way his hands looked at High Tower, the split, scabbed over skin standing out starkly against the civilized veneer of his dress shirt. A man who hit things until his hands broke open wasn’t a man who knew how to be gentle.

“One bag?” His comment seemed less a question and more a curious observation, delivered in that flat baritone that gave away nothing.

“It’s what I was allowed to bring.”

Something flickered behind his eyes before it vanished beneath the stone-faced indifference he wore. He turned without another word and walked inside, clearly expecting me to follow.

The interior felt like walking into a museum after hours. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine reflected crystal sconces that cast warm, golden light across walls decorated with beautiful artwork. The air smelled of lemon polish, fresh-cut flowers from an arrangement on a center table the size of a small boat, and beneath it all, the faintest trace of cigar smoke. I absorbed every detail, in awe of the opulence.

Matteo walked slightly ahead, his stride long enough that I had to work to keep pace without appearing to rush. He didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t offer a single word of orientation as we moved through a series of hallways that seemed designed to make visitors feel small. The eastern wing was quieter, the art on the walls softer but no less beautiful.

He stopped before a set of heavy double doors and pushed them open with one hand, stepping aside just enough to let me pass. The gesture forced me to brush close to him in the doorway, and I caught his scent, sharp and clean. I inhaled deeply, trying to catch more and managed to stop myself before I moaned. I hoped. Why did he have to smell so good?

The suite beyond was beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful. A bedroom large enough to swallow my entire suite at the Marchesi house, with a four-poster bed draped in cream silk, tall windows overlooking what I assumed were the formal gardens, and enough furniture to furnish a small apartment. Through an archway to the left, I glimpsed a sitting room that connected, presumably, to his quarters. A shared space. Close enough to hear a door open in the night.

“This is your suite.” His voice was flat, informational, stripped of anything resembling warmth. “You don’t leave the estate without security. You want to go somewhere, you tell your guards. They’ll arrange it. That rule, again, is about safety. As I said, being associated with our family makes you a target.”

“Understood,” I said. My suitcase sat at the foot of the bed. If this was an indication of how things ran in this household, they were very efficient.

“Wardrobe’s full. Alessandro had someone handle it. Let your guard know if you need something and he’ll have Bianca contact you.” He sounded almost bored so I tried to act the same.

I opened the wardrobe doors and found exactly what he described — rows of designer pieces arranged by color, each one my size. Dresses, blouses, trousers, shoes still in their boxes. Someone had studied me. My measurements, my preferences, the muted palette I generally wore. Seemed either this engagement had been planning this longer than my father had let on, or the Lucas were simply that thorough.

“Dinner’s at eight,” Matteo said from the doorway. I could feel him watching me. “You’ll have a guard outside your door to escort you. Don’t be late.” The door clicked shut behind him as he left without waiting for my acknowledgement.

I stood motionless for ten full seconds, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hallway. Then I exhaled, and my shoulders dropped in relief. I’d have to be alone with him sooner or later, but at least maybe I could get my bearings first. I turned away from the door and began to unpack, hands steady, mind racing, the clock on the mantel counting down toward eight.

I knelt beside my suitcase and unzipped it with steady hands, peeling back the layer of folded clothes until I found the hidden seam along the lining. The flash drive was exactly where I’d left it, wrapped in its waterproof fabric, nestled in the zippered pocket. The tiny object contained enough evidence to dismantle my father’s empire and possibly start a war between two families. I had to get a feel for the situation here because I would be directly in the blast zone when the shit hit the fan if I wasn’t careful. Or if my father found out what I had.

I put the tiny drive in my toiletry bag, tucking it inside the false bottom I’d made. Then I set up my laptop on the writing desk, angling the screen to face the wall rather than the windows or either door. Paranoia, maybe. But paranoia had kept me alive this long, and I wasn’t about to abandon it in a house full of people who made their living reading others.

I didn’t open the laptop. Not yet. Not until I’d had time to assess whether the room was truly private or merely designed to look that way. The Lucas were thorough. The wardrobe proved that. I wouldn’t put it past them to wire a guest suite, especially one housing a woman they had every reason not to trust. It wasn’t that anything I had on my father would affect them in the negative. I just didn’t want anyone finding out what I had until I had it all together in a nice, neat bow. I had the raw data. Now I needed to put it together in a coherent fashion.

The bathroom was obscene. Heated marble floors, a glass-walled shower large enough for four people, thick towels that felt like they’d been spun from cashmere. I showered quickly, letting the hot water hammer the tension from my shoulders as much as I could.

I dried off, taking care not to leave a trail back through the bedroom. Somehow, I thought that might be frowned upon in this place. I stood before the open wardrobe in a towel, scanning the rows of designer clothes. Same sizes and brands I favored. At least, I figured that’s what Matteo had gone for. This wardrobe pretty much mimicked what I had at my father’s except three times as much. Too bad I hated every single piece. My clothes had always been chosen for me, carefully neutral so I appeared elegant without overshadowing whomever I accompanied.

The outfit I selected was a simple cocktail dress, sleeveless but with a modest neckline. The hem hit just above my knees. I did up the side zipper and turned to examine myself in the full length tri-fold mirror.

The dress fit like it had been made for me. Every line, every seam, the exact right amount of ease through the waist and hips. Despite the expensive clothing my father had for me, nothing compared to what I had on currently. I smoothed the fabric over my stomach and stared at the woman in the glass. She looked composed and polished. Good. She’d need every bit of that tonight.

At ten minutes to eight, I opened the door to find a guard standing across the hall from my door, close enough to be near me without crowding me. He glanced in my direction briefly before averting his gaze but didn’t speak.

“Are you the guard who is supposed to escort me to the dining area?”

“Miss Marchesi.” He didn’t offer his hand or his name. “If you’ll come with me, please.”

He took me through the house to the formal dining room. As we approached, a man in what I could only describe as formal dining serving attire looked our way and turned to face us. His dark pants looked every bit as expensive as any suit my father owned. He wore a cream colored tailcoat and white gloves, standing tall and proud.

“Miss Marchesi,” he said in a polite tone. “Excellent. The family is only just starting to arrive.” He smiled warmly but didn’t come across too personal. He opened the door, indicating I should go inside. I expected my guard to follow but he stayed out in the hallway and didn’t even glance at me. Yeah. I was making friends there.

The chandelier scattered light across a table set for seven. Crystal and china and enough silver to make my father weep with envy. My father had money, but the casual wealth shown in Luca Villa blew my mind. I couldn’t be further out of my league if I’d landed in a royal palace somewhere.