ARSHILA — POV
Did my husband kill him?
The question doesn't knock.
It kicks the door in and starts pacing my skull like it owns the place.
Did Zayan actually kill him?
No.
Right?
I mean—no. He doesn't do that. He can't. He punches. He threatens. He terrifies rooms into silence. But kill? That's a line. A very obvious, very red line. Even monsters have lines. I think.
Except I don't actually know where his are.
And that response—
Oh.
What the fuck was that?
Not shock. Not confusion. Not even annoyance. Just… oh. Like someone told him dinner got delayed.
I want a real answer.
My feet decide before my brain finishes panicking.
I move.
Fast.
Down the hall. Corners too sharp. Breath loud. Blood rushing in my ears like I'm running from something instead of toward it.
I catch him near the doors.
His back to me. Calm. Always fucking calm.
I grab his sleeve.
Hard.
The fabric pulls tight under my fingers.
He stops.
Slow.
Deliberate.
First he looks at my hand on him.
Then my face.
One brow lifts.
"What's this?" he asks mildly. "You running laps now, babe?"
That nickname lands wrong. Too soft. Too normal.
"What was that response?" I snap. "Back there."
He tilts his head. Just a fraction. Like he's amused enough to be curious.
"What response?"
"Don't do that," I say. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
His mouth curves.
That lazy smirk that should come with a warning label.
"You mean when you showed me the news?"
"Yes," I say, heat crawling up my spine. "Someone is dead, Zayan. How can you react like that?"
He shrugs, unbothered. "What would you prefer?"
I stare at him.
Waiting.
"Should I look devastated?" he adds. "Mourn the loss? Pretend I'm heartbroken?"
"That's not—"
"I can't lie," he cuts in smoothly. "I don't have kindness for men like him."
My chest tightens.
"What if the cops find out you assaulted him at the gala?" I say, words tumbling now. "What then?"
He chuckles.
Actually chuckles.
Low. Warm. Like I just said something adorable.
"They won't, baby."
I blink. "What?"
He steps closer, voice calm, almost patient. "That was a private Tavarian gala. No cameras. No press. No digital footprint."
My stomach drops again.
"No one even knows a gala happened that night," he continues. "And even if someone did—"
He leans in slightly.
"Do you have proof I assaulted him?"
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
"You punched him," I say. "In front of people."
He smiles wider. Dangerous now.
"The same people who answer to me."
That lands like a punch to the gut.
He reaches for my hand—the one still clutching his sleeve—and slides his fingers through mine, clasping it like he owns it.
"Don't worry," he murmurs. "No one arrests a Tavarian."
I hate that he's right.
I hate that I know it.
He squeezes my hand once, grounding and possessive all at once.
"You should rest," he says gently, already turning.
He takes a step.
Then another.
My chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.
"Zayan," I whisper.
He stops.
Doesn't turn yet.
The silence stretches.
My voice comes out hoarse. Barely there. "Did you kill him?"
He turns his head just enough to look back at me over his shoulder.
Moonlight cuts across his face, sharp and clean, making him look unreal. Inhuman. Like something carved instead of born.
His eyes meet mine.
Dark.
Unreadable.
His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk.
He doesn't answer.
He just turns away and walks through the door.
Leaving the question hanging in the air.
And me standing there, cold to the bone, realizing the worst part isn't not knowing.
It's knowing he could have.
------
I walk.
I don't know where I'm going. The mansion decides for me.
Hallways stretch like they've got opinions. Tall ceilings. Too quiet. That rich kind of quiet where even your thoughts sound loud and wrong.
My head is still stuck on the news.
One week.
Didn't leave his apartment for one week before his death.
Bullshit.
I pass a wall and something black catches my eye. Letters carved deep, not decorative, not cute.
Italian.
LA VERITÀ NON DORME.
I already know what it means .
The truth doesn't sleep.
I snort under my breath.
Of course it doesn't. Why would it? It's probably on caffeine and cocaine and laughing at me right now.
My fingers brush the wall as I walk past. The stone is cold. Solid. Old. Tavarian-old. The kind of old that watched empires rot and took notes.
My brain won't shut up.
Zayan's face flashes again. That calm. That unreal calm. Like death is just another calendar notification he forgot to mute.
I've always known he's… different.
That Tavarian genetics bullshit everyone whispers about. Perfect bone structure. Perfect control. Perfect restraint. Like nothing ever touches him unless he allows it.
It used to be hot.
Now it's terrifying.
Because men who look like that? Men who move like that? They don't just snap.
They calculate.
Then-
I feel it before I hear it.
That pressure.
That instinctive prickle between my shoulders that says you're not alone, idiot.
I stop walking.
Don't turn.
Darkness shifts behind me. Heavy. Still. Not Zayan.
If it were Zayan, the air would feel warmer. Familiar. Possessive in a way my body stupidly likes.
This feels… blank.
I don't look back.
"Did you hear the news?" I ask, voice flat.
"Mm," Izar says from the dark. "Yes."
I exhale a sharp laugh. "Isn't it stupid?"
Silence.
I keep going because if I stop, I'll start screaming.
"The news saying he didn't get out of his apartment for one week before his death."
I shake my head. "Like, wow. Incredible commitment to staying indoors. Truly inspiring."
"What's stupid about it?" Izar asks.
My body freezes.
Not metaphorically.
Actually freezes.
"What?" I say, slowly, and I turn.
He's there.
Leaning against a pillar like he's been placed there intentionally. Black suit. No wrinkles. No expression. Tall enough that my neck automatically tilts.
"What do you mean, what's stupid?" I snap. "You know he attended the gala two days ago."
Izar's brow lifts.
Barely.
"Did he?"
My stomach drops.
Hard.
My eyes widen before I can stop them. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
I take a step toward him. Anger rushing in because fear needs backup.
"You were there," I say. "You fought his men. You broke a guy's nose with your elbow."
Izar pushes off the pillar and walks toward me.
Slow.
Measured.
Each step lands like it's been approved by someone higher up the food chain.
He stops right in front of me.
Too close.
Towering.
"Did I?" he asks calmly.
My pulse starts doing stupid shit.
This isn't horror-movie scary.
This is worse.
This is two men reacting to death like it's admin work.
"You can't lie to me," I say. My voice is sharper now. Defensive. "Not about this."
His gaze drops to my face. Studies it. Like I'm a problem with multiple solutions.
"I don't have to lie, Arshila."
The way he says my name—
Not soft. Not teasing.
Flat.
Official.
My skin prickles. Everywhere.
"Don't look into things that aren't within your reach," he continues. "You don't have to care if someone is dead or not."
I swallow.
My mouth is dry. My tongue feels useless.
"That's not—" I start.
"Sleep," he says, cutting me off. "You'll feel better after good sleep."
My chest tightens.
Sleep.
Zayan said that too.
Of fucking course he did.
Izar steps back and inclines his head. A slow, precise bow. Respectful. Distant. Final.
"Good night," he says.
Then he turns and disappears down the corridor like he was never there.
I stand alone.
Heart racing. Hands cold. Thoughts loud and ugly.
If this is how Zayan's bodyguard talks—
What the hell is Zayan hiding?
Sleep?
Fuck you.
I look back at the wall.
LA VERITÀ NON DORME.
Yeah.
No shit.
I straighten my shoulders, jaw tightening as something reckless and sharp settles into place.
Whatever you bastards are hiding from the world—
I'm going to find it.
And I'm not going to ask nicely.
_____________________
ZAYAN — POV
The study smells like old paper and espresso that's gone cold on purpose.
Low lights. Dark wood. Walls that have heard worse things than lies.
I'm standing by the desk, cuffs undone, sleeves rolled like I'm pretending this night was normal. Like her face didn't look at me the way it did.
The door opens without a knock.
Izar steps in. Quiet. Controlled. Same as always.
I don't turn.
"Did she go to bed?" I ask.
"No," he says. "She's still in shock."
I close my eyes.
Just for a second.
A muscle jumps in my jaw. Annoyance? Worry? Something uglier?
"Didn't I tell you," I say calmly, "that I'd give her clues?"
Izar doesn't answer.
I turn now. Lean back against the desk. Cross my arms.
"I just did," I continue. My voice is steady. Certain. "And now we wait."
His gaze sharpens. "You're sure?"
A slow smile pulls at my mouth.
"Watch her," I say. "She'll come find me."
Because Arshila doesn't sleep when something doesn't make sense.
She hunts.
___________________________
(TWO DAYS AGO)
The city blurs past the window.
Rome at night is loud even when it's quiet. Streetlights streak gold. Scooters buzz like insects with attitude. The air smells like stone and rain and money that doesn't ask permission.
It's past 1 a.m.
Izar is driving.
I'm in the back seat, jacket open, chain cool against my collarbone, watching Italy pretend it's asleep.
It isn't.
We stop in front of Residenza Aurelia Sky, glass and steel rising like it's trying to insult the sky. Private entrance. No signage. The kind of place that doesn't exist on maps unless you're invited.
I step out.
The night air hits different here. Cleaner. Colder.
Inside, the lobby is silent. Marble floors. A concierge who doesn't look up because he already knows who I am.
The elevator waits.
77.
The doors close. Ascend. No music. Just the soft hum of machinery doing its job.
I adjust my cuffs.
The doors open.
The hallway is carpeted thick enough to swallow footsteps. One door at the end. Lights dimmed like this floor doesn't expect surprises.
I walk.
Stop.
Knock.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The door opens.
A man fills the frame. Expensive robe. Whiskey glass in hand. Eyes sharp despite the hour.
I smile.
"Hello, Mr. Lorenzo De Luca."