The cathedral bells sound like a warning, not a blessing.
They toll slow and heavy over Saint Patrick’s, each strike vibrating through my bones as Vincent’s hand clamps around my elbow. Not guiding—claiming. Cameras flash the second we step onto the marble path leading to the graves, a ripple of whispers following us like a disease.
Joseph Moretti’s daughter.
The secret one.
The murderer.
Black lace itches against my skin. I chose it deliberately—mourning, but sharp. If I’m going to be paraded, I won’t look breakable.
“You don’t let go,” Vincent murmurs without looking at me. “No matter what they say.”
“And if I want to?” I ask.
His grip tightens just enough to bruise later. “Then you remember whose name you carry now.”
The coffin is closed. Of course it is. Joseph Moretti doesn’t let anyone look too closely, even in death. As the priest speaks, my eyes scan the crowd automatically—old habit from autopsy rooms and crime scenes. Politicians with stiff smiles. Gang leaders pretending to grieve. Men whose hands have signed death warrants instead of condolence cards.
Then I see Lucas.
He stands at the edge of the crowd, dark suit, badge hidden but obvious in the way he holds himself. Detective Lucas Grant. My lover. My anchor to a life that feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.
Our eyes meet.
Something fractures quietly inside me.
He’s here to watch me. Not protect. Not comfort. Monitor.
Sebastian’s voice cuts through the prayer like a blade.
“Such a shame,” he says loudly, stepping forward. Too loud. Too deliberate. “That Joseph’s death raises more questions than answers.”
A murmur ripples outward.
Vincent stiffens beside me. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
Sebastian smiles, eyes flicking to me. “Isn’t it? When a man is poisoned with a substance stolen from his own daughter’s lab, people tend to wonder about motive.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“Motive like inheritance,” he continues smoothly. “Or resentment. Or long-buried family secrets.”
I feel every gaze turn toward me. My pulse roars in my ears.
Lucas takes a step forward. “That’s enough.”
Sebastian raises his hands innocently. “I’m only asking questions. Isn’t that what justice is built on?”
Vincent’s voice is low, lethal. “Say another word, and you won’t leave this cemetery.”
Sebastian holds his gaze for a beat too long, then retreats—satisfied. He’s planted the seed. He doesn’t need to water it.
The burial ends in a blur. I barely register the dirt hitting the coffin, the finality of it. Joseph Moretti is gone, and whatever protection his shadow offered is gone with him.
The memorial dinner is worse.
Crystal chandeliers. Linen so white it feels obscene. I barely touch my wine, though Vincent insists I drink something “to steady my nerves.”
Halfway through the first course, heat blooms in my stomach.
At first it’s subtle—nausea curling low, a dull pressure behind my eyes. Then my fingers start to shake.
“Elara?” Vincent murmurs.
“I—” The room tilts. My vision blurs at the edges. “Something’s wrong.”
The glass slips from my hand, shattering against the floor.
Chaos detonates.
Vincent is on his feet instantly. “No one leaves,” he roars. “Lock the doors. Now.”
Guards flood the room. Politicians protest. Gangsters reach for weapons. I’m dimly aware of Vincent kneeling in front of me, his face pale with fury.
“Doctor,” he snaps at me. “Tell me.”
“Slow-acting,” I whisper. “Not lethal. Designed to weaken. Scare.”
Vincent’s eyes go cold. “Search them.”
Minutes later, a small vial is produced from Isabella’s clutch.
Gasps. Accusations. Isabella’s face drains of color. “Vincent, I swear—”
He backhands the table instead. “You carried poison to my father’s funeral?”
I want to scream that none of this makes sense. That Isabella is too careful. Too smart.
As the room fractures into shouting factions, a woman brushes past me—Alessandra. Vincent’s beautiful, silent mistress.
She presses something into my palm.
A folded note.
I open it with shaking fingers.
Spider tattoo. Sebastian. Wrist. Covered with makeup.
My breath catches.
The room spins again, but this time it’s not the poison.
Because suddenly everything aligns—the memory, the tattoo, the way Sebastian watched me like unfinished business.
Vincent lifts me into his arms, his jaw clenched tight. “I won’t let them touch you,” he says fiercely. “I swear it.”
I should feel trapped.
Instead, against all logic, I feel…protected.
Across the room, Lucas watches us. His face is a study in restraint and heartbreak.
This is the moment I realize the truth.
I am standing on the fault line between two worlds.
And whichever one I choose—
The other will burn.