Chapter Three

Rhysand’s POV

Business was never personal; this was the first thing my father taught me right before I learned how easily people die for it.

The sound of the private club’s glass doors closing behind me was drowned by the clinking of whiskey and low chatter.

Barely five minutes ago, I had just sealed a multimillion euro deal with a London investor who thought he was the one doing me a favor.

The naive man didn’t realize I had walked away owning half his company by the time his pen left the paper.

“Congratulations, Castellano,” Grayson said, slapping me on the back as we walked toward the exit. “You’ve officially robbed another man blind.”

Loosening my tie, I smirked, “It’s not robbery if he hands it over willingly.”

“Remind me never to play poker with you.” He laughed.

“If you ever made an attempt, you will lose everything, including your soul,” I replied dryly, heading toward the waiting car.

The night air in Paris was sharp with the scent of rain. I watched as Grayson shoved his hand into his pocket to pull out the car key.

Just when I was going to say something to him, my phone rang in my hand and then I glanced at the screen.

It was a call from home, straight from the city of Naples.

“It's uncle," I said to Grayson and that instant, he snapped his head to face me.

“Take it." He urged and I did reluctantly.

“Rhysand.” Uncle Bernardino didn't waste time once the lines connected.

“It's a surprise," I said, sliding into the back seat of the car while Grayson handled the steering wheel.

“Your father… he’s dead.” He bit out.

For a moment, I thought I misheard him. Taking a deep drag of air, I pushed my hand into my hair, “Come again?”

“They found him in his office with a stab wound on his neck.”

Gripping my phone even more firmly, I said nothing as I watched the traffic blur past in streaks of gold and gray.

My father, the untouchable Don Castellano, is dead? That was almost funny.

Uncle Bernardino continued quickly, as if he was afraid I would hang up. “They say… his fiancée killed him.”

And now, this was funny and so I let out the laugh that had been begging to come out. The sound was sharp and humorless.

“His fiancée? My father?” I repeated, trying to get a hang of the situation.

“Yes,” he said. I could practically hear the sweat dripping down his neck through the phone.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Carmen Meadows.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. It shouldn’t have as my father’s taste in women was fleeting. He had never mentioned a fiancée, which only proved how much of a farce his life had become after I left.

Glancing at Grayson who was watching me with that cautious look he always wore when the air around me changed, I rubbed my jaw.

“What?” he asked.

I hung up and slipped the phone into my pocket. “My father’s dead.”

“What?” He gasped, stepping on the brake with a full force.

Shrugging, I threw my gaze out of the window, “He was stabbed on the neck in his office. His fiancée’s the prime suspect.” I dropped the last sentence with a huff.

Swirling around fully, he kept staring at me like I had just said the moon fell into the ocean.

“You’re joking.” He bit out finally.

“I wish I was.”

“Holy hell, Rhys.”

“Don’t look so horrified. He was bound to piss off the wrong person eventually.” I huffed, rubbing my temple which was now aching.

“You don’t sound… sad.”

“You don’t mourn what’s already been dead to you.” I replied. Not giving him a chance for a comeback, I said, “Book the next flight to Naples, we’re going home.”

***

The flight was long and filled with silence.

All through the flight, my mind was restless. It was replaying every memory I had tried to bury since I walked away from the family mansion three years ago.

My father and I had parted with threats and not goodbyes. He had called me a disgrace because I couldn't end Rhett, my twin brother.

And in return, I had called him a tyrant.

Now I was being dragged back by the same ghosts I had tried to outrun.

With my hands clasped on my thigh, I stared out of the plane’s window as the lights of Italy came into view.

The land looked the same from above; dark hills, sleeping cities and silent seas.

Shifting on his seat, Grayson turned to face me and then broke the silence. “Do you think she really did it?” He asked, peering at me.

“His fiancée?” I asked the obvious question.

“Yeah.” He leaned back in his seat. “You know, it's not easy to live with a man like dad so maybe she snapped.” He shrugged, biting his nails.

“Maybe,” I replied only to start replaying the name of his finacée in my head just in case she matched the profiles I had set up in my head.

The plane touched down the tarmac just as dawn cracked over the horizon. Naples looked gray and tired like it always did before the city came alive.

Maurice was at the entrance of the large gates when we arrived in the convoy he had sent to the airport to pick us up.

The moment I stepped out of the car, I asked, “Where is she?”

“If you are talking about his fiancée, she is in the living room, waiting for you.”

Halting, I straightened up, “Why?"

“We had to keep her hostage with her son."

“Her son?” I asked with an archbrow as things were getting more interesting.

“Yes.” He nodded, leading the way. "He is around three years old.”

That instant, a frown flashed across my face as I clenched my fists by my side. “She has a child, and my father wanted to marry her?” I grimaced.

Maurice’s silence was answer enough.

With irritation flaring, I exhaled through my nose.“Tell me something, do you think she is responsible?”

“That's only if she has super human powers. The autopsy came back not long ago." He paused. “She discovered the body thirty minutes after his death and she has a strong alibi."

I nodded but said nothing.

Exhausted, I ran a hand through my hair. “Fine,” I said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”

Maurice pushed the door open and with Grayson behind me, I made my way into the building.

The living room was dimly lit with curtains drawn halfway. The morning sun tried to break through it but failed.

Two guards stood motionlessly by the door and sitting on the couch, was her; I didn't need anyone to tell me that.

She looked nothing like what I expected.

She wasn’t one of my father’s usual women. She was younger than them and she was modest.

She was sitting very still as if moving might break her and beside her was a small boy, clutching her hand.

Whispering something I couldn’t hear into his ears, she held him close.

Now rubbing my nape, I stepped inside, the sound of my shoes against the marble floor startling her.

With widened eyes, she lifted her gaze quickly.

For a split second I felt lightheaded and I couldn’t breathe.

This wasn't an illusion, I was certain I had seen those pairs of eyes before, just that I couldn't place them.

Determined to get an identity for her, I allowed my mind to try placing the memory and it did.

It was three years ago, my first night in Paris. I couldn't recall exactly what happened but I did know that I shared a bed with her.

As if that wasn't enough discovery already, the little boy raised his head and standing right in front of me was my replica.