Dance of Deception: Chapter 31

Dark bruises bloom across my skin. A dull throb lingers between my legs. I trace my fingers over the angry welts on my wrists, the faint indentations from his hands on my hips, the bite marks dotting my inner thighs and breasts.

Every inch of me is sore.

And yet, I smile.

It shouldn’t feel this good to be this destroyed.

Carmine is stretched out beside me, looking completely relaxed, like he didn’t just chase me down, tackle me to the ground, and fuck me like he was staking a claim on my very bones. His bruises match mine, shadowing his ribs, his forearms—scratches on his jaw, where I got him with my nails.

I exhale slowly, pressing a cool cloth to a particularly dark bruise on my ribs, wincing. Jesus. I might need to start taking a first aid course if I’m going to keep having sex with this man.

“You look pleased with yourself,” I mutter, side-eyeing him as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

Carmine smirks, not even looking up as he scrolls. “And? Shouldn’t I be?”

Rolling my eyes, I lean back against the pillows, my skin still humming.

“I want to go out,” I say suddenly.

Carmine finally looks up from his phone. “Out?”

“Yeah.” I push my hair back, watching him. “A date. You know—like a normal couple.”

I feel like an idiot the second I say it. It sounds so needy and pathetic. Instantly, I wish I could take it back, but it’s out there.

Carmine’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, he looks almost bored. “I don’t date.”

“Unless it’s Ciara Marchetti.”

Well, that’s out there too.

Good thing I wasn’t hanging on to it or anything since Dove said it the other night.

Carmine’s brow arches. His smirk deepens as he glances up at me. “Jealous much, little dancer?”

I bristle, scowling. I hate that he looks so entertained.

“Tell me,” I snap. “How many?”

His eyes blaze. He’s enjoying this far more than he should. “How many what?”

I cross my arms. “How many women have you done this with?”

He frowns as he tosses his phone aside and rolls to face me, stretching out like a jaguar.

“Done what, specifically? Marrying them when my father steps down⁠—”

“You know what the hell I mean,” I mutter.

Carmine leans in, voice dropping. “Do you imagine that I frequently find women who enjoy the idea of me chasing them down and fucking them senseless?”

Before my mouth can open with a simple “yes”, he reaches over and cups my jaw, pressing my lips together with his thumb.

“Answer that as if you were not the sort of woman who actively craves that.”

My face heats instantly.

His smirk sharpens. “You’re the first.”

I huff, feeling petulant now. “Her sister said you had a thing with Ciara.”

Carmine tosses me an unimpressed look. “I never once touched Ciara Marchetti, despite what people around me seem to believe. We grew up in adjoining mafia families. That’s all.”

I search his face, trying to see if he’s lying. But Carmine isn’t the type to lie. He’d rather let the truth burn you alive.

I exhale, letting it go. For now. “Still… I want a date.”

Carmine rolls his eyes. “I told you: I don’t date, Lyra.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything?”

He gives me a look, and I grin.

“Tell you what. Take me on a real date, and I’ll let you chase me like a lunatic and fuck me like a monster.”

Carmine raises an unimpressed brow. “You mean like I literally just did.”

I giggle, shaking my head. “I mean I’ll let you do it again.” I shift closer, pressing my lips to the corner of his mouth. “And again, and again…” My breath hitches, a thrill shooting through me. “And I think you’d like it if I begged…”

Predatory lust flashes behind his eyes.

I have him now.

“So,” I murmur, brushing my lips over his jaw. “Take me on a date, husband.”

A slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his lips. “Fine.” His voice is a low rasp against my skin. “But don’t think I’ll go easy on you.”

Laughter hums around me, warm and easy, the air heavy with whiskey, sweat and sawdust from the ax-throwing lanes across the room. The bar is dim, packed with bodies, the steady thud of axes hitting wooden targets mixing with the background chatter of a basketball game playing on the TVs.

I shift in Carmine’s lap, his hands tightening automatically around my waist. His fingers dig into my hips like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. I sip my drink, my body still aching in the most delicious ways from our earlier chase.

This feels weirdly normal, given who my husband is.

It also feels really, really good.

Across the table, Bianca leans into Kratos, laughing at something he’s murmured in her ear. Roman sits beside them, his date—a blonde girl whose name I don’t remember—chattering away while he barely acknowledges her. His gaze flicks up sharply when three people suddenly emerge from the crowd and step over to our corner table.

“Relax, I’m here. You can all start having fun now.”

Bianca and I roll our eyes as we turn to look up at Vaughn. A blonde girl I’ve never seen before is on his left arm.

A brunette that I also don’t recognize is on his right one.

Vaughn shakes them off before extending a tattooed hand to Kratos. Bianca’s husband grins, standing and grabbing Vaughn’s hand before bringing him in for a bear hug.

“Long time, man,” Kratos rumbles. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Oh, you know,” Vaughn shrugs. “Making sure your wife doesn’t get into trouble at rehearsal.”

Kratos grins. “That’s a tough job. My thanks and condolences.”

Bianca rolls her eyes, grinning.

Vaughn turns to Carmine and me, his brows arching as he takes in the sight of me sitting on my husband’s lap with his arm around my waist.

He smirks. Then his eyes lift to Carmine’s. “Don Barone. I come to you on the day your daughter is to be wed⁠—”

“The Godfather. Very clever,” Carmine deadpans. “I’ve never heard that before, growing up in an Italian mafia family. Literally. Not once.”

Vaughn grins. “So, like, how does this work? Do I kiss your ring, or⁠—”

“I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“High five?”

Carmine shrugs. “Sure.”

I laugh as Carmine and Vaughn do just that. It’s so weirdly…normal.

“Mr. Nikitin,” Vaughn’s smile curls dangerously, his brow cocking as he turns to Roman.

“You keeping my sister out of trouble, too?” Roman grunts.

“Evie?” Vaughn grins. “Don’t have to. She’s a fucking nun.”

Vaughn’s two dates slide back into his arms as he nods his chin at Roman and the blonde sitting next to him. “Who’s your date?”

“Angela,” the blonde grins, blushingly holding out a hand, like Vaughn’s going to kiss it. Let’s be real, that’s not outside the realm of possibly when it comes to Vaughn, but on this occasion, he ignores it.

“Want to ditch your date and join our party instead?” he purrs.

Roman’s brow furrows as he glances at Angela and then glares at Vaughn. “The fuck is your problem?”

“Relax,” Vaughn grins, looking right at Roman. “I was talking to you, not her.”

I snort. Bianca turns to hide her giggle in Kratos’ shoulder. Roman scowls, his face darkening.

“Yeah, pass.”

“Why?”

Roman’s brows knit as he stares up at Vaughn. “Because I’m straight?”

Vaughn’s lips curl devilishly into a hungry grin. “Now who told you my favorite dirty talk?”

“Jesus Christ,” Roman grunts, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as Vaughn blows him an air kiss, then drags his two dates to an empty spot around the table.

I glance around. “I’ll grab the next round. What’s everyone want?”

I stand as they all shout at once. Carmine’s hands stay on me until the last second, and after he reluctantly releases me I weave through the crowd toward the bar.

I order from the bartender and lean against the counter, waiting, tapping my nails against the wood. The TV above the bar flickers, but I don’t pay much attention. It’s been basketball all night. Yawn.

I collect the drinks and turn back toward the group⁠—

And something in the air shifts.

There’s a sudden silence at the table even before I get there. Bianca and Kratos have gone still. Roman’s jaw is clenched, and Vaughn’s easy grin has faded.

And then I see Carmine.

His entire body is rigid, eyes glued to the screen above the bar behind me.

Something cold slithers down my spine. Before I can stop myself I turn, just as the bartender turns up the volume and people crowd around the bar.

“To recap our breaking news, authorities have discovered a hidden underground bunker beneath a rented single family home in Newark, New Jersey, which bears striking similarities to the infamous lair of convicted serial killer and rapist Arkadi Ostrov.”

No.

“Inside the bunker, police recovered the bodies of two young women. Restraints, cages, and professional-grade recording equipment were also found, mirroring the chilling setup in Ostrov’s previous crimes. Investigators say this new discovery could substantiate the claims made by missing conspiracy podcaster Marcus Chen, who has repeatedly suggested that Ostrov may not, in fact, be dead.”

The world tilts.

The drinks in my hands crash to the floor in an explosion of shattered glass.

No.

No, no, no.

“Dude, I swear, that’s fucking HER.”

“Oh my God, the Ostrova chick?”

“What, here?!”

“Holy shit, get a picture! That’s totally her!”

Carmine is already cutting through the crowd as they all turn to stare at me.

I stumble back. I don’t even know why I’m running, just know that I can’t breathe, and I need air.

I shove through the doors, the cool night air hitting me like a slap, my pulse a thumping drumbeat in my ears. My hands shake and my vision blurs as I brace against the wall outside.

This can’t be real.

Arkadi’s fucking dead.

I almost scream when my phone buzzes. I flinch, yanking it out of my pocket and staring down at the text message.

My blood turns to ice.

The text is from the same anonymous number.

The next text is a photo of my mother, asleep on the couch in my old apartment, a newspaper with today’s date lying next to her.

My hand flies to my mouth and my pulse slams against my ribs as one more text comes through.

I have only a vague idea that Carmine is bellowing my name before everything goes black.