Chapter 18 – A Deal With The Devil

• Alina stood at the edge of the office, her hands clenched into fists behind her back, knuckles white. The fever had faded days ago, but its residue clung to her skin like invisible ink—marking her, changing her. She hadn’t forgotten the way his hands had soothed her, how he’d held her head in his lap and whispered things she couldn’t quite remember.
• But she hadn’t forgotten the rest either.
• The power. The captivity. The truth he kept from her.
• Luciano was seated behind the massive black oak desk, flipping through something that looked like an old ledger. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, shirt open just enough to reveal the faint line of the scar she’d once touched in silence. He didn’t look up when she entered.
• “I want to know what happened to my father,” Alina said, voice sharp.
• He kept reading. A second passed. Then two.
• “Good evening to you too,” he murmured.
• “Don’t play games with me.”
• Now he looked up. Calm. Composed. Dangerous.
• “You’re sure you’re well enough for this conversation?”
• “I’m not asking for your permission, Luciano.”
• The room tensed around them like it was listening.
• He closed the book slowly and stood, walking around the desk with the precision of someone who never moved unless it served a purpose. He stopped just short of her, arms folded. Alina didn’t back away. Not this time.
• “Your father,” he said, “is a man of debts.”
• “What kind of debts?”
• “The kind that change hands. From one generation to the next.”
• She narrowed her eyes. “You’re saying I inherited them?”
• “I’m saying your father chose himself every time. And that choice came at a cost to both of us.”
• Alina’s breath hitched. “Both of us?”
• Luciano studied her face with something close to softness. “I offered him a way out. He sold you instead.”
• She flinched. “You’re lying.”
• “I have no reason to lie.”
• “No,” she hissed. “You just like control.”
• He stepped closer, enough that she could smell the faint scent of him—amber, cedar, and something darker. “I want you to understand. But I won’t force the truth into you like a confession.”
• “So what is this, then? Another test?”
• Luciano moved back to the desk and opened the center drawer. From it, he pulled a black leather-bound planner. It looked old, worn, the corners scuffed from years of use. He flipped to the middle, tore out a single page, and circled something in red.
• Then he held it out to her.
• “Three weeks,” he said. “Obey. Let me in. Let go of your suspicion long enough to feel. At the end, I’ll tell you everything. No lies. No omissions.”
• Alina stared at the page. The date—exactly twenty-one days from now—burned like a curse.
• “And if I say no?”
• “You won’t.”
• “That’s awfully confident for a man who keeps me locked behind steel and guards.”
• His eyes darkened. “You’re not locked anymore. Not really. Not in the way that counts.”
• She hesitated, then took the page from him, fingers grazing his. Her chest tightened. She hated how warm his skin felt. How familiar it had become.
• “I’ll play your game,” she said. “But don’t confuse curiosity with surrender.”
• A slow smile tugged at his lips. “Of course not.”
• “But if I find out you’re still lying to me—”
• “You won’t.”
• He tucked the leather planner away and reached behind him to pour two glasses of wine. She stiffened, but didn’t move as he handed her one. No threats. No mocking toast. Just the clink of glass on glass.
• “I’m not here to touch you,” he said. “Not tonight.”
• She took the glass. Didn’t drink it.
• He lifted his own. “To the game.”
• She remained silent.
• Luciano didn’t seem to mind. He took a long sip, then turned his back to her and stared out the tall window overlooking the southern gardens. The moonlight kissed the scar on his neck, and she wondered—not for the first time—who had marked him first. The world? Or his father?
• Later that night, Alina lay on the edge of the bed, turned away from him though she knew he wasn’t sleeping yet. The silence stretched long between them, filled with ghosts.
• She could feel the wine she hadn’t drunk sitting untouched on her nightstand.
• Her thoughts spun. About her father. Her mother. About debts traded like currency. Had he really given her away so easily?
• She closed her eyes.
• Three weeks.
• Twenty-one days.
• That was all it would take, apparently, for the devil to deal in honesty.
• But what scared her wasn’t that Luciano might still be lying.
• It was the possibility that he wasn’t.
• She rolled onto her back and stared up at the dark canopy of the ceiling.
• Her pulse was too loud. Her mind too full.
• Luciano didn’t reach for her. He hadn’t since the night of her fever. And that restraint unsettled her more than any touch.
• It made her wonder what game he was playing. Or worse—if she had already started playing it without realizing.
• Her gaze shifted to the calendar page on the side table. The red circle burned like a wound.
• A deadline. A promise. A trap.
• And yet…
• Somewhere in her chest, something whispered: What if it’s the only way to know the truth?