Page 19 of Crimson Fate

“Are you still planning to help with my party?” I ask, trying to think of a reason for her to stay.

“I said I would,” she replies, exhaustion lining her features. “I’ll come back and help with whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” I say, softer now. “That means a lot.”

She nods, collecting her purse from the couch, her movements slow and deliberate. A part of me wants to reach out, to tell her to stay, to admit that maybe, just maybe, she understands more than I’ve given her credit for. But I remain silent, following her as she retreats to the elevator.

“Vincent,” she says, hesitance lacing her tone, “if you’re going to talk to your captain, promise me you’ll be careful.”

I can’t help but smirk, even as the weight of our earlier disagreement hangs between us. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me, Eva?” My teasing is an attempt to lighten the mood, but a part of me aches for her genuine care.

“Of course, I’m worried about you.” She steps closer, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard by the intensity of her gaze. “Amelia might be my best friend, but you... I care just as much for you.” Her voice is a soft whisper, but it punches through the tension like a bullet.

“Thank you, Eva,” I say, sincerity seeping into my voice. “That means more than you know.”

She gives me a small, brave smile, then slips into the elevator, leaving a void where her warmth once filled the room.

The second the elevator doors shut, I reach for my phone and dial Marco. As soon as he answers, my voice is all business, every trace of humor gone.

“I need you to set up a meeting with Casaletto.” My words are clipped, each one sharp enough to cut.

“Understood, boss. When and where?” Marco’s voice is calm and collected—the response of a man who has weathered many storms beside me.

“Tomorrow,” I reply. “I want it discreet and secure. You know the drill.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Make sure everyone’s on alert. I don’t know what to expect from the meeting.” I end the call without another word, the finality of the beep echoing in the silence.

I stand alone, surrounded by shadows that seem to creep closer with every passing second. Eva’s words linger in my mind, mixing with the adrenaline that courses through my veins.

I move back to the living room and pour myself another drink, the liquid amber fire against the crystal glass. The first sip burns all the way down, a reminder that I’m very much alive and every move I make from here on out needs to be as potent as this whiskey.

“Start a family...” The concept floats through my thoughts, a stark contrast to my current reality. I push it away, irritation flaring. Now is not the time for such musings. I need focus and clarity. My father didn’t raise a dreamer; he raised a King.

Maybe if I found someone like Eva...I think to myself. The idea of family, of something more than power and control, flickers in my mind like a candle in the wind—fragile and easily extinguished.

I can’t afford distractions. Not now. Not with the empire teetering on the brink of chaos. My father’s voice rings in my memory, stern and unforgiving. “A King cannot rule with his heart. Only with his mind.”

Eva’s concern... her fear for me—it’s a luxury I can’t indulge in. Yet the warmth of it lingers. Even though Amelia is her best friend, she said she cares just as much for me. That means something, doesn’t it?

I shake my head, dispelling the thought as quickly as it comes. There’s no room for what-ifs or maybes. There’s only the stark reality of the crown and the blood oath to defend it.

Tomorrow, I’ll remind Anthony why I sit at the head of the table.

Chapter Seven

The rich aroma of garlic and red wine seeps through the heavy oak door as I push it open. The private room at Luciano’s is swathed in shadows, a cocoon of secrecy that suits my current needs. It’s here, among the velvet drapes and flickering candles, where power shifts more subtly than anywhere else.

“Vincent.” The voice slices the hush like a blade. Anthony Casaletto’s silhouette is a charcoal smear against the crimson upholstery of his chair—calm, unflinching.

“Anthony,” I say as I step inside, the door closing with a soft click behind me.

I stride toward the table, my leather shoes soundless on the Persian rug. Each step feels deliberate, like a chess piece moving into place. He stands, and as I approach him, he opens his arms for an embrace, pressing his lips to each of my cheeks.

He waits for me to sit first, considering I am now the head of the family, and his respect doesn’t go unnoticed. Hope finds its way into my thoughts that perhaps the rumors of Anthony’s treachery were blown out of proportion.

“I have to admit, I was a little surprised when Marco called to tell me that you wanted to meet with me alone,” Anthony interjects, his eyes fixed on me.