Chapter Eight - Pricilla

The dim glow of the city lights barely seeped through the tinted windows of the car, casting shadows that flickered across my face as I leaned back against the leather seat. The scent of leather and gunpowder clung to the air—a familiar comfort, a reminder of the world I belonged to.

Luka sat beside me, his presence steady as always, but tonight, something felt… off. Maybe it was the way he kept adjusting his cufflinks, a nervous tick he never had before. Maybe it was the way his eyes darted toward me every now and then, like he was watching me too closely.

Or maybe I was just being paranoid.

I turned my attention to the city beyond the glass, watching the streets blur as the car sped toward the meeting. The Cortez family wasn't to be trusted, but I wasn't a fool—I never walked into anything without a plan. That's why tonight was more than just a meeting.

It was a test.

Anton thought he had me cornered, that I was blindly stepping into whatever little trap he had laid out. I smirked at the thought. Let him think that. Let him believe he was always one step ahead. Because when the time came, I'd be the one holding the knife.

"Are you sure about this?" Luka's voice cut through my thoughts, low and controlled, but I caught the edge of hesitation in it.

I turned to him, tilting my head slightly. "Since when do you doubt me?"

His jaw tensed, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "I don't. I just think it's risky."

I let out a quiet chuckle, tapping my manicured nails against my thigh. "Everything in this life is risky, Luka. You should know that by now."

He exhaled through his nose, his fingers flexing against his knee. "Just watch your back tonight."

I didn't respond. I didn't need to. I always watched my back.

The car slowed to a stop in front of a high-end restaurant, the kind of place that masked bloodstained deals under the guise of sophistication. I stepped out first, my heels clicking against the pavement, the cold night air biting against my skin. Luka followed closely behind, his hand resting near his gun as we approached the entrance.

The doorman barely spared us a glance as he let us through, and inside, the restaurant was just as I expected—dimly lit, filled with the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey, conversations murmured over clinking glasses. But my focus was on the table in the farthest corner, where Manuel Cortez sat, a glass of bourbon in hand and an arrogant smirk already plastered on his face.

I took my time walking toward him, letting my presence sink in before I slid into the seat across from him. Luka remained standing, a silent shadow at my side.

"Miss Moretti," Manuel greeted, swirling his drink lazily. "A pleasure, as always."

I smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Let's not waste time with pleasantries. You know why I'm here."

His smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Ah, straight to business. I admire that about you." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "But tell me, Pricilla, does Rosenthal know about this little meeting of ours?"

My expression didn't falter, but inside, my pulse steadied into something lethal. So, he was testing me. Trying to see if I'd flinch at the mention of Anton.

"He doesn't need to," I said smoothly, reaching for the wine glass in front of me but not drinking. "And he won't. What happens between us stays between us."

Manuel chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. "You say that, but men like Anton Rosenthal? They have a way of knowing things they shouldn't."

I tilted my head, keeping my voice even. "And men like me? We have a way of making sure they don't."

Silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken threats. Then, finally, Manuel leaned back, tapping his fingers against the table.

"You want information," he said. "And I want something in return."

I smirked, already expecting this. "Of course you do."

He motioned toward one of his men, who leaned down and whispered something in his ear before slipping a small folder onto the table. Manuel pushed it toward me, his smirk deepening.

"This is what I have," he said. "But before I let you open it, I need reassurance that you'll hold up your end of the deal."

I didn't even glance at the folder. Instead, I met his gaze head-on. "I don't break promises. You'll get what you're asking for."

Manuel studied me for a moment before nodding, gesturing for me to take the folder. I did, but I didn't open it—not yet. Not in front of him.

"This has been a lovely conversation," I said as I stood, sliding the folder into my coat. "But I have more important things to do."

Manuel simply chuckled again, raising his glass in a mock toast. "I'm sure you do, Moretti. Until next time."

I turned on my heel and walked away, Luka falling into step beside me. Once we were outside, the night felt colder, sharper.

Luka exhaled. "I don't trust him."

I smirked, glancing at him. "Good. Neither do I."

We got into the car, and I finally opened the folder under the dim interior lights. My eyes scanned the contents, and my blood ran cold.

Anton. His name was all over it.

But it wasn't just about him. It was about me. My movements. My meetings. Things that only a handful of people should have known.

A chill settled in my bones, but I masked it with a slow inhale. Someone was feeding Anton information about me.

And there was only one person who could have gotten this close.

Luka.

I shut the folder with a quiet snap and turned to him, forcing my expression into something unreadable.

"Drive," I said, my voice smooth, unaffected.

But inside, something dark coiled in my chest.

I would figure this out.

And when I did, traitor or not, Luka would pay.

The cold night air bit at my skin as I stepped out of the car, the headlights casting long shadows over the Moretti estate. My heels clicked against the marble driveway, each step heavy with the weight of the evening. The encounter with Anton still burned at the back of my mind—his arrogant smirk, the way his eyes lingered like he saw something in me I refused to acknowledge. It was infuriating.

And yet, as much as I wanted to shove the memory aside, I couldn't ignore the way my body betrayed me in his presence. The tension between us was dangerous, built on a foundation of hatred and something far more reckless. I hated him. I loathed everything about him—the way he carried himself, the way he dared to challenge me, the way he made my heart pound like I was standing at the edge of a cliff.

Luka walked a step behind me, his presence grounding, steady. He had always been there, my shadow, my shield. But tonight, something felt… off. Maybe it was the way his eyes flickered too quickly when I caught his gaze in the rearview mirror earlier. Or the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly when I mentioned Anton.

I pushed the thought away. I was tired. Frustrated. My father would be waiting inside, no doubt demanding an explanation for my absence.

The moment I stepped through the grand double doors, I was met with silence. A thick, suffocating quiet that wrapped around me like a noose. My eyes flickered across the dimly lit hallway, the faint hum of voices coming from my father's office.

Luka stepped past me, nodding toward the stairs. "I'll be outside if you need anything."

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. "Fine."

As soon as I was alone, I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension. My heels were loud against the marble as I made my way toward my father's office, pushing open the heavy wooden door without knocking.

Matteo Moretti sat behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his sharp gaze cutting straight through me. "Where were you?"

I didn't flinch. "Handling business."

His expression remained unreadable, but the slight twitch of his fingers told me he wasn't pleased. "Business?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "And what kind of business requires you to be in Anton Rosenthal's presence?"

I froze. Just for a second. But it was enough.

"I have eyes everywhere, Pricilla," he continued, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You should know that by now."

Of course, he did. My father was a man who thrived on control, who hated unpredictability. And Anton? He was the definition of unpredictable.

I lifted my chin. "If you already know, then why are you asking?"

A slow smirk tugged at his lips, but there was no humor in his eyes. "Because I want to hear it from you."

My pulse thrummed against my skin, but I kept my voice even. "Anton wants a war. I was simply reminding him that he's not prepared for one."

My father chuckled, a deep, dark sound. "And yet, you let him get close enough to touch you."

A slow burn of irritation crept up my spine. "You're mistaken."

He tilted his head, studying me. "Am I?"

I clenched my fists at my sides. "Anton means nothing to me."

He leaned back, satisfied—for now. "Good." He took a slow sip of his whiskey. "Because if I ever get the impression that you're playing games with the enemy, I won't be as forgiving."

The warning hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

I turned on my heel without another word, stepping back into the hallway, my heartbeat drumming against my ribs.

Luka was waiting outside, his gaze unreadable. "Everything okay?"

I studied him for a moment. The man I trusted more than anyone. The man who had been by my side for years.

And yet, for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure.

I nodded slowly. "Yeah."

A lie.

And from the way his lips quirked ever so slightly, I knew he saw right through it.

I didn't go straight to my room. The conversation with my father lingered in my head like a thick fog, suffocating, consuming. He had been watching me. He knew about Anton.

I paced down the dimly lit hallway, my heels barely making a sound against the polished floors. The silence of the estate felt different tonight, heavier somehow. I had been raised in this house, knew every shadow, every creak in the floorboards. But something about the way the air settled around me now felt… wrong.

I turned a corner and nearly collided with Luka. His presence should have been reassuring, but for the first time, I hesitated.

"You're still here?" I asked, masking my unease with indifference.

His expression remained unreadable, but his lips twitched as if amused by my question. "Where else would I be?"

I studied him, my instincts clawing at me to find the source of my discomfort. Luka had always been steady, unwavering. My father trusted him. I trusted him. But that nagging feeling at the back of my mind wouldn't go away.

"I don't need a babysitter," I said coolly, brushing past him.

He chuckled under his breath. "Never said you did."

I didn't stop. I needed space. The air felt suffocating inside the estate, and my father's warning still echoed in my head.

"Because if I ever get the impression that you're playing games with the enemy, I won't be as forgiving."

I pushed open the balcony doors, letting the crisp night air bite at my skin. The city stretched out before me, glittering like shattered glass. Somewhere out there, Anton was undoubtedly scheming, playing whatever twisted game he had started.

And despite everything, despite the hatred that simmered between us, my body still hummed with the memory of his touch.

I gritted my teeth.

I hated him.

But hate wasn't supposed to feel like this.

I leaned against the railing, gripping the cold metal until my knuckles turned white. I needed to get Anton out of my head.

But the problem wasn't just him. It was everything. My father watching me like I was a liability. Luka's sudden unreadable expressions. The feeling that I was standing in the middle of a board game where the pieces were being moved without my knowledge.

I exhaled sharply and turned back toward the house. I wasn't going to let my thoughts consume me.

But as I stepped inside, I caught Luka watching me from the shadows.

His gaze was careful. Calculated.

And for the first time in years, I wondered if I had made the mistake of trusting the wrong person.