Chapter 98

[ALEX]

Uncle Damien runs a hand through his jet-black hair, his dark eyes fixed on me. Even though I've known him since childhood—he's my father's adopted younger brother—he has a startling stare. I can't afford to show any weakness today. Giving myself away would mean giving Mia up.

"You got here quickly," I say dryly. The house is still recovering from the attack; the lingering shock waves through the staff are palpable.

"I was already on my way when I heard about the attack."

"Why?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Can I not come see my favorite nephew?" He retorts.

Suspicious, to say the least. Still, I crack a half-smile. "Don't let Ronan hear you say that." (Ronan, my younger brother.)

"He won't," Uncle Damien smiles. "And if you open your mouth, you won't have a mouth anymore."

"Yeah, yeah." I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. "You and Dad baby him too much."

"Says the guy who beat up a kid who ruffled Ronan's hair."

"He was a year younger than me," I say, my half-smile becoming genuine as we reminisce. "Only I ruffle his hair."

"Always protective," he laughs heartily, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"Drinking this late?" I comment. "I doubt Aunt Elena approves."

His expression hardens at the mention of his wife. "I heard your talk with Bakshi was inconclusive."

I stiffen at the mention of the hospital and the shadowy figure I saw recording me. "It was hardly inconclusive," I say, feigning nonchalance. "Bakshi agreed to help."

"Hm," his lips twist skeptically.

"I handled it, Uncle."

"And you made it clear—the punishment for betraying the Bratva?" He looks me directly in the eye, and I fear he knows about the girl upstairs.

"Very clear," I nod.

"Okay," he nods back. "Now, about the attack. Any leads?"

"None," I reply, and we fall into easy conversation about our enemies and how they found my location—I'm the most elusive of their allies.

Chapter 98 (Continued)

It was late evening when my uncle left, after reminding me of his upcoming party and ensuring my house was in order after the attack. Everything was spotless, the blood completely gone. But the attack happened, and so did my loss of restraint thanks to a very enchanting temptress. The thought of her—her legs open before me—brings a groan and a definite tightening in my pants.

To Lana's shock, and my own, I asked for Mia to join us for dinner instead of having it taken to her room.

A twinkle shone in Mia's eyes as she followed Lana into the dining room, dressed in one of the clothes I'd provided.

"Sit," I instruct, and she sits across from me at the long table. "You eat alone?" she asks groggily, as if just waking up.

I nod stiffly.

"That that's lonely."

I glare at her. "Do you want to eat or should I send you back to your room?"

"I'm not a kid," she mumbles, trying to meet my gaze but failing after a couple of seconds before grabbing her plate and salad.

"Just three dishes?" she asks.

I raise an unimpressed eyebrow. "Were you expecting a feast in your honor?"

"No," she flusters, her cheeks reddening. "In the movies, Mafia heads eat like kings."

"What movies do you watch?"

"Inaccurate ones, apparently."

"Sorry to disappoint," I say, dripping sarcasm.

"Forgiven," she sassed, happy to be out of her room, even if only in the dining room. "Does this mean I can join you for your meals every day?"

"Hm." I indulge her. "What do I get if I allow you to do that?"

"My company?" she offers.

"Not special enough."

She pouts, then the expression disappears as if she remembers who she's talking to—the man she probably hates. Did she? Or didn't she?

"Every day you have one meal with me, to end your loneliness, you tell me something about yourself," I offer. "It has to be real information. Your favorite color isn't going to cut it."

She considers this while finishing her salad. "I get to pick what I tell you?" she confirms.

I nod.

"Hm," she drawls, as if refusing was even an option. She'll take it, out of boredom or loneliness.

Chapter 98 (Continued)

I'll be one step closer to understanding her story each day, things my PI didn't tell me, closer to figuring out why she was recording me at the hospital.

"And you can bake a dessert every day," I add, a mercy I rarely feel, but she's somehow the exception (twice).

A grin spreads across her face. "Deal." Her eyes twinkle as if I've given her back the stars.

We eat in silence, controlling the urge to roll my eyes or shake my head.

When she's finished, she perks up. "Do I have to tell you something today, too?"

"That was the deal, yes."

She blows out air, seemingly lost in thought. "I was a foster kid," she finally says. "Six foster homes. I ran away from the seventh one when I was sixteen."

I watch her hopeful expression. "Does that count as information?"

It did not; my PI had already told me that. Still, I nod. "It counts."

"Great." There's that smile again—soft, optimistic. "Goodnight, Alex."

"Night, Mia." I watch her disappear upstairs, followed by Lana, leaving only the scent of strawberries.