ログインDominikThe Meridian Room is a monument to old money and older sins. Dark oak paneling, velvet drapes the color of dried blood, and chandeliers that cast a golden, forgiving light on the men who run the underworld.There used to be six seats at the High Table. Now, there are five.The chair where Giovanni Armando used to sit has been removed, the gap filled seamlessly as if he never existed. That is how we work. You fall, the water closes over your head, and the sharks keep swimming.I sit at the head of the table. To my right sits Don Salvi, a man whose hands shake from Parkinson’s but whose mind is still sharp as a razor. To my left sits my wife.Eve is a vision tonight. When is she not?She’s wearing a plunging dress of midnight blue that clings to her curves like a shadow. Her hair is swept up, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. The neck I marked with my teeth two nights ago. She’s managed to cover the bruise with make-up. I’d rather have had it on display.She’s smiling
EveI’m lying in bed, stiff as a corpse, wearing a black slip that feels less like lingerie and more like a shroud. I haven't slept. I haven't read the book lying open on the nightstand. I’ve spent the last four hours staring at the ceiling, replaying the fight in the gym, listening for the sound of his footsteps.He didn't come to dinner.Luciana brought a tray up to the room, her eyes averted, sensing the radioactive fallout in the house. I picked at a salad. I drank two glasses of wine.Now, I wait. My heart kicks against my ribs with a traitorous, frantic rhythm when I hear the door opening.Dominik must have showered in a different room. He’s wearing nothing but black sleep pants that hang low on his hips, exposing the V-cut of his pelvic muscles. His hair is damp, combed back from his face. His expression is terrifyingly blank.He doesn't look at me. He walks to the dresser, removing his watch. The heavy gold clinks against the wood."You’re still awake," he states. "It’s har
EveThe library is too quiet. The bedroom is too big. The entire East Wing of the mansion feels like a mausoleum built to house the corpse of my dignity.I’m pacing the hallway, my heels clicking a frantic, staccato rhythm on the marble.Dominik didn't just insult me at breakfast. He eviscerated me. He took the fragile, tentative respect we’ve been building for the last week and fed it into a woodchipper.And the worst part? The part that makes bile rise in my throat?He’s right about my father.Deep down, in the darkest, most repressed corner of my mind, I know my father sold me. I know he grabbed the opportunity with both hands, when he should have grabbed that gun and shot himself rather than allow me to offer myself as sacrifice in his place. But I need to believe the lie. I need to believe I’m a martyr saving a good man from a bad situation. Because if what I actually did was sign away my freedom, in exchange for the life of a father who made bad choices and would rather see me
DominikThe breakfast table is a landscape of cold porcelain and even colder silence.Eve is sitting at the opposite end of the long mahogany table. She’s wearing a high-necked, sleeveless black blouse that covers the diamond collar I forced on her yesterday, but I know it’s there. I can see the outline under the halterneck.She hasn't looked at me since she sat down. She’s pushing a piece of melon around her plate with a silver fork, her movements mechanical.She’s back to hating me this morning.It’s for the best.Hate is a clean fuel. It burns hot and fast, and it keeps the engine running without clogging the gears with sentiment. Yesterday in the jewelry store, I reminded her of the hierarchy. I reminded her that she’s my possession.One with unexpected uses and depth, but still an object, bought and paid for. I hurt her pride, which was unavoidable. I needed to do it. The last few days, feeling like we’re equal partners, the shared laughter in the elevator, the way I held her in
EveThe air in the back of the Maybach is distinct. It smells of hand-stitched leather, Dominik’s sandalwood cologne, and the crushing weight of things left unsaid.It’s been four days since I took control of the political sector. Four days since we fucked in the elevator like animals desperate to outrun a cage. Since then, Dominik has been distant.Not cold exactly. He speaks to me. He touches me. He strategizes with me. But the frequency is different. The warmth that flickered in the dark bedroom that night, the ibuprofen, the hot water bottle, holding me because I was in pain, has vanished like it never happened.I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed by it.He treats me like a high-performance weapon. He keeps me oiled, loaded, and pointed at his enemies, but he sets me aside as soon as the shooting stops."Where are we going?" I ask, watching the city blur past the tinted windows."Fifth Avenue.""I don't need more clothes, Dominik. My closet is already overflowing in
EveI’m half-sitting on the arm of Dominik's chair, watching Senator Miller looking decidedly uncomfortable on the opposite side of the desk."He’s sweating," I murmur in Dominik’s ear, capping the fountain pen I just used to sign as witness to the contract. Pretending like I’m not the one who put it together.Dominik is leaning back in his obsidian chair, one leg crossed over the other, looking like he owns every atom in the room."Of course he is," he replies lazily. "He just realized he sold his soul."Across the desk, Senator Miller is dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. He looks smaller than he did at the Gala. The bluster is gone, replaced by the nervous twitch of a man who knows he’s stepped into a trap he can't chew his leg out of."This clause about the oversight committee," Miller stammers, pointing a trembling finger at the document. "It gives you veto power over zoning permits issued to any other applicants. We never discussed that. It puts me in a very precarious po







