NICCO

Pulse racing, my fingers clench around Juan Pablo's phone in a white-knuckled grip. I feel sick to my stomach as I read on.

AYS: I got him down on one knee. He proposed to me.

I scroll down the screen. A picture of an engagement ring appears. It sparkles and shines, taunting me. The gray of the diamond is unmistakable. One of a kind. It matches her eyes perfectly. My gaze lingers on the photograph. It is, indeed, the very ring I asked Aria to wear to Manning's dinner party tonight. This realization turns my blood to ice. No matter how badly I wish to keep my head in the sand, there is no denying AYS' identity at this point. I can confirm, right then, who these initials belong to.

A for Aria.

Y for Yue.

S for Senarath.

Frantically, I skim over the rest of their conversation, and I cannot look away even though every damning word I read is absolutely gutting me.

Unknown Sender: Vitale... proposed?

AYS: You know how temperamental Vitale can be. It hasn't been easy to reel him in, but he's actually pretty infatuated with me right now. I'm planning to strike while the iron's hot and convince him to sign those documents ASAP.

Documents?

A crease appears between my brow.

What documents?

Alarm rises in me when I suddenly remember the documents that Manning kept pushing me to sign for the Gravinski account.

Cazzo.

I take out my laptop and sign into my account. My pulse races as the screen loads. Two seconds later, I witness the full scope of Aria's betrayal. At first, I refuse to believe my eyes. From day one, my girl has to place a toe out of line. She always got my approval before taking any action on my account. Never has she logged in to make decisions without my consent.

Fucking hell, guess there is a first time for everything.

My gaze bores into the laptop screen. I take in the damage she has done. Aria has forged my signatures on all of these fucking documents, granting Manning power over the Gravinski account that I never wanted to give him. I will not be able to terminate these contracts unless I recruit an army of lawyers. Access to a vicious and competent legal team will not be a problem. It is the endless weeks, days, and hours they will need to prep for the case, however, that will fuck me over. By the time we get to court, months will have gone by, giving Manning a wide-open window to wield full authority over the Gravinski account and slowly disburse the funds throughout Jackson & James in an untraceable manner.

In about two weeks, he will be able to exploit Jackson & James as the Beltráns' personal money laundering service.

My blood is boiling.

My heart is breaking.

How long has Aria been playing me for a fool?

Since my first day at Jackson & James?

Or even before then?

Unable to look at my laptop a second longer, I slam it shut. I do not know whether to laugh or weep. Proof of my girl's treachery is now undeniable. I no longer have the luxury of clinging to false hopes. Carl tried to warn me. Vivi did as well. My stupid, stubborn ass refused to listen to either of them.

I let Aria become my moon. From day one, I only saw her light. No more. My eyes are finally open. What remained hidden in the shadows now seems clear as day, and I feel like a goddamn fool. Aria drew me in and preyed on my obsession with her and her troubled past. Despite what I was led to believe, she was not keeping secrets because they were too painful to share. She kept them because I was her endgame in the most fucked up way possible.

Pain rips at my chest. Contrary to what I once believed, my girl was never mine. Yet, even now, I cannot hate this woman when I have every reason to despise her. Her knack for deception is diabolical. In a sick way, I rather admire her ruthlessness. A smirk tugs at my mouth even while a sharp ache hits the back of my eyes. My eyelids shut for a moment, blocking out the hurt. Bitterness poisons my mind.

Why did she choose Juan Pablo over me?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Both eyes reopen. My hand curls into a ball. Trembling, my self-control snaps, and I can no longer contain the emotional mayhem. Violence erupts. My fist shoots forward to smash the flatscreen TV mounted in our cabin, cracking the surface like a spider's web.

Every head in the cabin snaps toward me. My men's expressions are gaping with shock.

"Sir?"

"What?"

"Is everything... alright?"

"Never been better," I reply through gritted teeth.

Good thing Antonio and Raul are not idiots. They are smart enough not to ask me any more stupid questions. Blood trickles down my knuckles. The throbs of pain do not bother me. It is nothing compared to the dagger Aria shoved into my back.

Dio.

How the fuck did things turn out like this?

I would have happily crawled to Aria on hands and knees and offered my heart as tribute. She did not want it, though. Instead, she played me like a diavola. Helplessly, brokenly, I glance outside the window. The sky looks colorless. Gray. Like her fucking eyes. I feel dead inside. Because she is dead to me.

***

ARIA

Appa's location remains unknown. But I'll have to put my search on hold until tomorrow. Manning's dinner party is in about six hours. I still haven't left London. I keep my eye on the clock. The drive to Birmingham will take two hours. Maybe three with traffic. Earlier on the phone, I reminded Nicco not to be late. Fuck me but I may end up being the tardy one tonight. Unfortunately, I can't leave London yet. There's one more action item to check off before I go.

At present, I'm still in my cubicle, awaiting a very important delivery from my new friend, the pickpocket I recruited. He goes by the alias, Lewis Carroll. Just to be cheeky, I told him to call me Alice. Fake names between us are fine for now. I don't have to trust the guy for the job I'm paying him to do. I just need Lewis to get the job done.

His tasks?

1. Track down Manning as soon as possible.

2. Find an opportunity to steal his house key.

3. Deliver the key to me.

I gave him Manning's itinerary and location for the day so he'll know where and when to find the bastard. I also provided a photograph of the actual key I'll need to break into Manning's place. I hope Lewis doesn't disappoint me. In case he fails to bring me the key, however, I have a locksmith on standby. Word to the wise: Always have a Plan B, C, and D when you're about to commit a crime.

Or ten.

A locksmith could get the job done faster, but the last thing I want is to have some conspicuous commercial truck or van parked outside Manning's posh townhouse in the Kensington neighborhood while I feed the locksmith a pack of self-deprecating, disarming lies about how only idiots like me would get locked out of my posh townhouse in the Kensington neighborhood.

General rule of thumb?

Whenever possible, avoid drawing attention from others. Based on past experiences, keeping shit as quiet and simplistic as possible tends to be the key to success. Employing such discretion was how I managed to slip under Jaime's radar the first time around. This is why I've turned to an unknown, small-time criminal like Lewis. Once our agreement is fulfilled, we'll go our separate ways, never to cross paths again.

Around 12:30 pm, I receive the good news that I'd been waiting all morning to hear.

Lewis: Got it.

Already?

Me: That was quick.

Lewis: Like taking candy from a baby.

It almost seems too easy. I can't help but worry.

Me: Did he notice you?

Lewis: Of course not.

Me: Are you still in B?

B—as in Birmingham.

Lewis: No. On my way back to L.

L—as in London.

Me: See you soon.

Two hours later, Lewis shares his GPS location. He's at a nearby park. Mile End Park. It's not easy to get away. Everyone seems to have a million problems for me to address today. It takes another forty-five minutes before I can escape from the office. On the way, I duck into a restroom at a coffee shop. Inside the stall, I change out of my stilettos and slip into a pair of trainers that are always in my bag. I then take out a hoodie and cloth mask and put them on as well. Better safe than sorry. I'm within walking distance of the Jackson & James building. I don't want anyone to recognize me.

Pulling the hood over my head, I dash down a tree-lined pathway toward the spot where Lewis sits on the map. I spot him sitting on a bench near the water.

"You're late," he complains.

"Sorry, I came as fast as I could," I apologize. "You brought it, though?"

Lewis pulls something small and metallic from his pocket. "I did."

As he hands over the key, I tap my phone to confirm his wire transfer of £1,000. It's from an anonymous account, of course.

"If this key doesn't open the right door," I warn quietly, "I have twenty-four hours to cancel the wire transfer."

"Relax, lass. It's the same one in the picture you gave me."

I pull out the photograph on my phone to double-check. "You sure?"

"Positive."

I study the key resting on my palm and the key in the photograph. With care, I inspect the variances between the dips and angles of every groove along the blades. He's right. Nothing seems amiss. They both look identical.

"Pleasure doing business with you," I grunt.

"Likewise," he replies.

Then, Lewis goes his way, and I go mine.

Key in hand, I take a cab to Manning's neighborhood. My old laptop is already in my bag. The driver drops me off on Abingdon Road. I walk the rest of the way. Rows of pristine all-white terraced houses line both sides of the street. I stop in front of Manning's house number. The property stretches four stories high.

Feeling nervous as hell, I approach the front door and push the key into the lock. I give it a good twist. There's a promising click. The door pushes open, and, just like that, I'm in the villain's lair. My nerves are on edge. I'll only have a small window of time to get in and out. It's a struggle to stay calm.

Good thing I've been doing my homework. Every time I crossed paths with Manning at work—or anyone in his social circle—I made it a point to siphon details about his personal life and tuck them away for future use. In particular, I've made every effort to eavesdrop on Manning's conversations with his personal assistant, Stanley.

I close the door behind me.

Thanks to Stanley, I know that Manning's housekeeper comes around this time each week, and the security system is set to automatically deactivate for her between 2:30 to 5:30 pm. She usually arrives after 3 pm.

I check the time. It's currently 2:39 pm, which means Manning's house should be empty for the next twenty minutes. Without wasting a single second, I scramble to find a discreet place to hide my laptop. After several minutes of scouting my options, I decide on a coat closet near the entryway. I tuck my laptop under a stack of shoeboxes.

There.

It's done.

It's finally done.

As I step out the front door, tension melts from my shoulders. Let's hope Manning's greed compels him to invest in Sossaman-Hewitt so I can trap his ass before everything and everyone that is precious to me self-destructs. I exhale a shaky sigh. So far so good. I didn't get caught. There's an actual chance that my crazy scheme might succeed.

When the time comes, I'll reactivate the employee monitoring software installed on all of Jackson & James' work-issued laptops, then anyone from HR will be able to track down the location of my "missing" laptop, and Manning will suddenly find himself with some explaining to do as he lands in deep shit with both Nicco and Jaime.

May God have mercy on Manning's soul.

Jaime won't hesitate to skin him alive once he suspects foul play.

And Nicco—

Fuck.

I don't know how far Nicco would go to punish those who have wronged him, and, to me, the unexplored depths of his wrath are far more troubling than Jaime's brand of evil. As a Vitale, Nicco has never been forced to play dirty and claw his way out of a corner. Life has always been a breeze for him. The world has only seen him as a harmless, devil-may-care fuckboy.

I wonder, however, if there hides a devil behind this charming facade. Just begging to be unleashed if someone ever tries to fuck him over.

I only pray that he won't ever send his demons after me.