Beauty in Deception

I’m free.

It’s a good day.

CHAPTER 16

Roman

* * *

The bottle slips from my hand and crashes on the floor. Fuck. That was my best scotch. I trip, barely managing to catch myself as I go to the bar for another bottle.

The door opens. Mateo enters, still wearing his wedding suit.

She ruined my plan, my life’s work. Evie. No, Christina.

I point a finger at my brother before grabbing a new bottle. “Take off that fucking suit.”

He looks from me to the broken glass and spilled liquor on the floor. “What’s going on? The guard said you let Warren’s men go.”

“I promised Evie.” My laugh is hollow. “No. Not Evie.” My lips curl around the name. “Christina.”

Mateo circles the broken glass and takes the bottle from my hand. “What the fuck are you talking about? Where’s Evie?”

I point a finger in the general direction of the basement. “In the cell. She lied. She’s not Evie.”

He puts the bottle on the counter. “You’ve had too much to drink. You’re not talking sense. Have a cold shower and sober up. Get your fucking shit together. You’re not alone, Roman. You have a family to consider, now.”

“We’re not married.” I lean my palms on the pool table and hang my head. “The woman I married is Evie Warren’s doppelgänger. Warren set me up.”

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah,” I say, uttering another laugh. “The joke is on me.”

“Son of a bitch.”

I lift my head. My brother has his face turned to the ceiling and his hands on his hips. He’s processing this, trying to make sense of it like I did a few minutes ago.

“He paid her?” he finally says, facing me again. “He paid her to get kidnapped? That’s fucked up.”

“What do I care?”

But I do. Between stealing and bedding her, I stopped hating her. I started seeing her differently. I respected her. I started liking her. That’s the real problem.

I like her.

“Is that why you locked her in the basement?” Mateo asks. “To kill her?”

Fisting my hands, I fight another surge of anger that torpedoes through me. “I haven’t decided.”

“Is she wearing a coat?”

I look at him. “I dragged her there straight from my bed after the little con artist fucked me while lying to my face. So, no. I didn’t stop to drape a fur coat over her shoulders. She’s wearing my shirt.” My shirt. It looked right on her, but she lied. She deceived me. It was all a scam. I slam a fist on the felt of the table. “I should fucking kill her.”

“In a short while, you won’t have to. It’s minus five degrees Celsius and damp down there. She’s got no fat on her body. She’s probably dead, already.”

The sound of that eradicates my anger. The thought scrapes on my soul like meat that’s being taken off a bone. It leaves me empty, aching, like a man being tortured.

“You need to sober up,” Mateo says. “If Warren set a trap, we need to be ready.”

He’s right.

“Have a shower,” he continues, making his way to the door. “I’ll get Andrew.”

I have to kill her, but I can’t. I fucking can’t, and it’s her fault.

Uttering a cry of fury, I slam my fist on the table. My knuckles are bleeding from earlier, but I don’t feel the pain. I didn’t feel the cold when I took her down there. I was too consumed with my anger. I still am, but I’m also lucid enough to realize what I’ve done.

Turning on my heel, I rush to the basement. The door at the top is unlocked. It slams against the wall when I yank it open. The silence that greets me is ominous. The single bulb throws a weak light over the floor. It fans out, looking almost angelic in the dark prison, like a beautiful but bad omen.

In the blink of an eye, I’m stone cold sober.

Urgency propels my steps. I almost fall at the bottom of the stairs.

Warren’s man, the man she called Number Two, sits with his back against the wall and his head hanging between his shoulders.

He looks up when I pass. “You’re too late.”

I don’t listen. If I do, I’ll be useless. I take the key from the hook on the wall. My fingers are numb. The cold makes them clumsy. I drop the key. Cold pierces through the soles of my feet and stabs into my chest. I bend to pick up the keyring and drop it once more before I manage to get a grip.

My heart thuds in the cage of my ribs. I pass the second cell and stop in front of the third. Christina lies on the floor in a fetal position, curled in on herself. She’s not shivering. She’s not moving.

I shut down my emotions. It’s what I need to act efficiently. It’s the only way to function. I unlock the gate. Leaving it open, I rush across the floor and turn her face to me. Her lips are blue and her pale skin so white she already looks like a ghost, but there’s a pulse in her veins where I press two fingers on her wrist. It’s weak, but it’s life.