Truth
851 Words
He reached up, gently taking the paper from my hand. He read it silently, his expression completely unreadable.
"Depends who's asking," he finally said, looking back up at me.
It was an infuriatingly attractive answer, and it made me want to scream.
"I'm asking!" I stepped closer, pointing an accusing finger at him. "The woman whose door was kicked in last night! The woman you are supposed to be fake dating tomorrow! Are you in the mafia? Did you kill someone?!"
Iker sighed, the sound coming off as exhausted. He gestured for the styling team to leave the room. They vanished instantly, closing the glass door behind them.
"The word 'mafia' is a crude Hollywood invention," Iker said quietly, leaning against the front counter. "My family controls... interests. Real estate. Private banking. Logistics. It is a very old, very powerful organization."
"And the disappearances?" I pressed, my heart hammering.
"My uncle, Vittorio, runs the enforcement side of the family," Iker said, his jaw tightening. "I manage the money. Or, I did. I found out Vittorio was using family assets to fund operations I refused to be a part of. When I tried to stop him, he tried to have me killed."
He stepped toward me, closing the distance. "I am trying to separate myself from them, Fressia. I am trying to burn it down. But to do that, I have to survive long enough to expose him."
He was telling me a partial truth. I could feel it in my bones. He was carefully editing the narrative, protecting me from the darkest parts of his reality.
I backed up slightly, crossing my arms defensively.
Iker stopped. His eyes dropped to the space between us, registering my retreat.
For the first time since I met him, the cold, arrogant mask cracked. I saw a flash of raw, unguarded emotion in his silver eyes. It wasn't anger, it looked just like… hurt. He recognized the fear in my eyes, and it genuinely pained him.
The silence in the gallery stretched. The Vivaldi music playing softly in the background suddenly felt incredibly loud.
"I understand," Iker said softly, his voice losing its usual commanding edge. He looked down at the floor, adjusting his cuffs. "I shouldn't have involved you. You were a civilian, and I used you for cover. It was selfish."
He looked back up at me, his expression completely guarded again, though his eyes were heavy.
"If you want me gone, Fressia... I'll disappear. You will never see me, or my enemies, ever again."
The offer hit me like a physical blow.
Men like Iker didn't ask for permission. They didn't offer people an out. They took what they wanted, manipulated who they needed, and discarded the rest.
But he was giving me a choice. For a fleeting, fragile moment, I saw the loneliness beneath the power he wielded. He was fighting a war against his own blood, and he was doing it entirely alone.
I looked at the printed article in his hand. Then, I looked at the rack of custom couture dresses waiting to transform me.
My mind flashed to Derek's text message. ‘Don't embarrass yourself.’ I thought about Nora, wearing Derek's hoodie, smiling at me while stabbing me in the back.
Then, I looked at Iker. A man who had broken an assassin's arm to protect me, bought me breakfast, and was now offering to walk away just to keep me safe.
"No," I said, my voice steadying.
Iker blinked, clearly surprised.
I stepped closer, invading his space, forcing him to look down at me. "You owe me a fake date, Thiago. You're still coming to the wedding."
A beat of silence passed. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved up into a devastatingly wicked smile.
"Which dress do you want to wear to a slaughter?" he murmured.
Elsewhere...
In that moment, however, thousands of miles away, in a sprawling, heavily fortified villa overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, an older man sat behind a massive mahogany desk.
Vittorio Thiago poured himself a glass of expensive Barolo wine. He was dressed impeccably in a bespoke suit, his silver hair perfectly styled. He looked like an aristocratic diplomat, masking the fact that he was the most ruthless man in Europe.
His phone chimed.
He set down the crystal glass and picked up the encrypted device. A message had arrived from his stateside operatives. He opened the attachment.
It was a high-resolution photograph taken from across a street in New York. It showed his nephew, Iker, wrapping his arms protectively around a beautiful woman with dark hair, shielding her from a swarm of paparazzi.
Me.
Vittorio zoomed in on her face. He studied her features for a long, silent moment.
"Interesting," Vittorio murmured, his voice cold and dry as cracked earth.
He set the phone down and pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Yes, Boss?" a voice crackled through the speaker.
Vittorio took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes fixed on the photograph.
"The girl in New York," Vittorio ordered calmly. "Kill her before Iker falls in love."
- Writer
