đ€ Leonardo
The air in the Ferraro mansion's grand ballroom felt sterile. Too many flowers, too much polite chatter, and a suffocating amount of Russian formality. This was the engagement party, a showcase of the alliance, and I was performing my role with chilling efficiency. My father and Dimitri were deep in a discussion about logistics, which was exactly where I needed them to be.
I scanned the room, my internal clock ticking off the hours. She wasn't here.
I had allowed myself the assumption that Nicole would be late. She was a predictable sort of chaos, she wouldn't miss a chance to cause trouble, especially not at an event designed to confirm my marital intentions toward her sister. But the hours dragged on, and she was still nowhere in sight.
She should have come down by now.
I felt a sudden, sharp dissatisfaction. I needed to know why. The logical step was Grace.
I pulled Grace into a casual conversation near the champagne tower, letting her talk about the caterers and the floral arrangements. She was kind, beautiful, and utterly predictable. Everything an heir needed in a wife. But here I was thinking about her sister making her current monologue tiring.
"...and I simply must tell you about the lace on the napkins, Leonardo, it's Italian, but Katya insistedâ"
I cut her short, my voice careful and casual, not wanting to Leave any impression on how I felt. "Grace. Your sister. Where is she?"
Grace frowned slightly, missing the sudden shift in my attention. "Oh, Nicole? She's not feeling well, unfortunately. She must have caught a cold."
A cold. The word echoed in my mind. The pool.
A slow, grinding knot tightened in my gut. I shouldn't have thrown her in. I knew she was drunk, running hot with adrenaline and alcohol. It was an impulsive, crude display of possessiveness, and now, if she were genuinely sick, it was entirely my fault.
But she was dancing with that guy. The thought was a weak justification, but I clung to it. She was doing it to spite me; she knew exactly how to push my control to the breaking point. So, no, it wasn't entirely my fault. Still, the image of her face, pale and furious emerging from the freezing water, made me regret the action.
I nodded, pretending concern. "A pity. I hope she recovers swiftly."
"I'm sure she will," Grace said earnestly. "I told her to rest."
"Marco," I called, stepping away slightly. "A word."
I needed Grace occupied, out of my orbit, and Marco was the perfect person. I walked toward the rail, Marco following.
"She's upstairs," I muttered to him.
Marco's smirk was instantaneous. "Who's upstairs Leo? I can clearly see your bride over there."
I shot him a killing look. He had a lot to say, but he wisely kept it to a smirk.
Marco walked back with me, and I addressed Grace. "Grace, I apologize, but I need to use the restroom. Could you direct me to the nearest spare one upstairs?"
Grace paused, a flicker of concern crossing her face. Allowing an Italian, especially me, upstairs was crossing her own boundaries, given that Dimitri's private office was on the second floor.
"It's fine, it wouldn't take long," I assured her, already anticipating the objection.
She relented. "The spare bathroom is down the long corridor, just past the small gallery. It's the second door on the right."
Marco chipped in, his voice laced with mock innocence, exactly as I had hoped. "Hope it's not near Nicole's room. Wouldn't want to run into her. You know that never ends well."
Grace laughed, completely oblivious to our manipulation. "Oh, no. Nicole's room is at the other end. Down the left wing, the last room on that hall. She likes her peace. So no you wouldn't run into her in any way."
Left wing. Last room. Information acquired.
"I'll be back in less than five minutes," I promised, turning immediately. I saw Marco start a low-voiced distraction with Grace about our wedding, securing my cover.
I moved through the first floor quickly, then went up the wide staircase, watchful to avoid being spotted by Dimitri's senior guards. Roaming the upper floor of the Pahkan's house was a massive breach of protocol; it suggested spying, plotting, or outright theft of information.
The truth was, I wasn't really interested in his office or his files right now. All I could think about was the one woman that was currently out of my sight. Nicole.
I walked down the quiet, carpeted left wing. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking. I instinctively flattened myself into an alcove, my senses heightened.
A moment later, Sergei, the bodyguard from the club, emerged from the very last room. He closed the door with a final, definite click before walking away. The last room. Grace was right. The last room, Sergei had just unknowingly confirmed it.
â„âȘ
As soon as Sergei's footsteps faded, I moved. I reached the door, plain, dark wood and paused for only a split second, rethinking my decision which I ever barely did. Then making up my mind i opened the door. I didn't knock. Knocking was a courtesy I rarely extended.
I pushed the door open, slipping inside.
The room was large, filled with books, pictures, and a warm flowery scent, nothing like the sterile perfection of the rest of the mansion.
And there she was.
She was sitting on the thick rug near a massive window, bathed in the soft, low glow of a lamp. Before her stood a large wooden sketch board. She was drawing.
She draws? The thought hit me with surprising force. I never would have guessed. It was a detail that added another layer of complexity to the beautiful, furious mess I knew.
She was wearing an oversized T-shirt, probably one of Dimitri, that swallowed her small frame. A thick blanket was haphazardly draped over her legs so I couldn't see them. Her hair was down, falling in soft, dark waves over her shoulders. She looked utterly different from the neon pink nightmare I'd thrown into the pool. She looked quiet, small, and devastatingly innocent.
F**k.
She was different every time I saw her. A new shade, a new beauty. She looked so goddamn hot at the party that I almost lost control of myself. Now, with the T-shirt and the blanket, sitting in front of that drawing board, she looked so soft, so unreal.
I leaned against the door, watching her for a long moment. She didn't turn around, but she must have sensed the shift in the air, the cold intrusion.
"Sergei," she said, her voice low and slightly husky, still focused on her work. "I told you I'm fine. I just want to be alone, for real. You can go back to your post. Papa would be furious if anything went wrong and you weren't there."
She continued drawing, assuming it was the guard who had returned.
"Does he come into your room without knocking?" I asked, my voice cutting through the quiet room.
At the sound of the voice; my voice. Nicole's entire body jerked violently. She spun around, wide-eyed, nearly sending the drawing board flying and splashing small drops of paint onto the rug.