"Mr. Mercer's party?" The hostess appeared, eyes darting nervously around the empty restaurant. "Right this way."
Lo stepped forward, hand already drifting toward his knife. "We go where he goes."
"I'm afraid Mr. Mercer requested a private dinner." A man materialized beside the hostess.
"It's fine." I lied, instincts screaming danger. "Wait at the car. If we're not out in two hours—"
Lo's voice brightened like Christmas morning. "I'll burn this place to the fucking ground."
The hostess led us through the empty restaurant. No other diners. No witnesses. Just us and Prometheus's men, watching from shadows as we approached the private dining room at the end of a narrow hallway.
Prometheus stood as we entered. Every muscle in my body locked tight, fight-or-flight flooding my system.
"Dr. Matthews. Luka. I'm so pleased you could join us."
He extended his hand. I forced myself to take it, his grip exactly as I remembered—firm enough to establish dominance, cold as a corpse.
My skin crawled. Some animal part of my brain screamed to bite, to tear, to do anything except stand there like a good weapon waiting for orders.
"Please, sit. My wife is just freshening up." He smiled like we were old friends, like he hadn't carved me hollow and filled me with violence.
We arranged ourselves around the table. Me with my back to the wall because paranoia had kept me alive this long. Vincent sat beside me, close enough that I could feel his warmth through our suits.
Crystal glasses caught the candlelight as he poured wine. "A Barolo," he announced. "2009. From a small vineyard outside Milan."
Milan.
The word slammed into my gut. The suite. The champagne that tasted like flowers and GHB. The ceiling spinning while he taught me that bodies could betray you in ways that felt like dying.
The crystal stem creaked under my grip, hairline fractures spreading through the glass. One more pound of pressure and it would shatter, and maybe I could use the shards to open his throat.
"Is there a problem?" Prometheus asked, and I could hear the satisfaction underneath his concern. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every detail of this dinner had been choreographed to cut me in places that never quite healed.
"I don't drink Italian wine." The words came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "Not anymore."
"Ah. Well, perhaps my wife can recommend something more to your taste." He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine.
The door opened.
"Perfect timing, darling," Prometheus said without turning around, voice warm with an affection that made bile rise in my throat. "Come meet our guests formally. We barely had time to speak at the funeral."
She walked in, and the universe cracked down the middle again.
Not with the same shock as at the cemetery—I'd had hours to process that impossibility—but with a different kind of agony. Seeing her in this context, in this intimate setting, made her existence somehow more real. More painful.
The woman in the doorway belonged in a magazine spread about elegant dinner parties. Black dress that whispered money, pearls at her throat like drops of moonlight, dark hair swept up to reveal the graceful curve of her neck. She moved carefully, her steps betraying the poise of someone who'd been taught that ladies didn't run, didn't shout, didn't stuff their pockets with stolen candy to share with their twin brother under threadbare blankets.
The wine glass creaked again in my grip.
"Ana, you remember Dr. Matthews and his partner, Luka," Prometheus said, the emphasis on 'partner' calculated to twist the knife. "From the funeral this morning."
"Of course." She smiled warmly, seating herself beside Prometheus gracefully. "I'm sorry we're meeting under such circumstances. Lincoln mentioned you were close to Michael."
Vincent's hand found my knee under the table, squeezing hard. Grounding me. Reminding me why we were here. To survive until we could find a way to free her.
"Michael was my patient," Vincent said, his voice admirably steady despite the tension radiating from him. "He'd been making tremendous progress."
"Such a tragedy," Ana said, genuine compassion warming her voice. "Lincoln mentioned you specialize in trauma therapy? That must be challenging work."
