The whole flirting-with-danger thing is over. Now it’s time for part two: figuring out how to get myself out of this mess.
While I wait for Matteo, I pace the room. My feet keep pulling me toward the window.
Outside, I see the gardener carefully filling round planters along the path with small white stones. I watch him for a moment. His movements are calm, measured.
As I stare, it happens again.
The moment I press my forehead slightly against the glass, the man suddenly lifts his head. I can’t see his features from this distance, just a pale blur, but I’m sure he looks straight at me. For a moment, we’re practically staring into each other’s eyes.
Then he looks away and reaches for another handful of white gravel.
My previous idea of signaling him seems even more stupid than before.
The compound is closed and secured. Surely, a gardener can’t smuggle me outside in a bag full of dead leaves, right? It couldn’t be that easy.
About half an hour later, Matteo comes to get me. He leads me through twisting hallways until we arrive at a massive room with a long table.
It looks like something out of a historical drama, everything over-the-top fancy. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The windows are draped with thick, dark red curtains tied with elaborate gold cords. The chairs have plush cushions and ornate curved backs. The tablecloth is embroidered. It feels like a palace from another century.
There’s also a set of large glass doors with vintage-style framing that lead out to an enormous patio, with a glimpse of a pool. I remember seeing part of that patio earlier when I leaned right up against the window.
Everyone’s already seated when I walk in, which is not ideal. Now I have to do the walk of shame past rows of strangers’ eyes.
Anzo sits at the head of the table. Two betas in decorated liveries are still arranging dishes from a rolling cart that moves slowly down the table.
No one speaks.
Matteo guides me to a seat at the far end of the table, thankfully, at a safe distance from Anzo.
Only once I sit down do I let myself glance around and study the people here.
To Anzo’s right sits Rocco, which says a lot. On his left is Luca. Next to him is another alpha, probably around twenty-six.
I’d tried looking them up before on the net, but I never found photos of Rocco and Luca’s younger brothers. I only remember their names: Eliano and Mauro.
Mauro’s supposed to be older, the mute one; Eliano’s younger. So I guess the one next to Luca must be Mauro.
The alpha doesn’t look up. He just stares at his plate. His hair is chestnut, a rich deep brown with a reddish shine. It falls a little past his ears in soft curls. The same color as my father’s hair. His skin is fair, and his eyes are dark hazel, from what I can glimpse. His features are classically handsome, almost too perfect.
There’s something off about him. Something distant. His presence feels… faded. Like the life’s been drained out of him, like he’s not even real. He never lifts his gaze from his plate. I’m not even sure he noticed me walk in.
From the other side of the table, right next to Rocco, there’s one empty chair, like someone’s missing. In the next seat over sits the youngest of the brothers, twenty-year-old Eliano.
He's got curls like Mauro's, but much darker, and they look almost deep violet and black melted together. They contrast nicely with his eyes, which are an interesting mix of light gold with copper streaks.
His features are fine and delicate. You could call him a pretty alpha, kind of like me, although maybe not quite as… omega-coded in appearance.
Unlike Mauro, Eliano actually looks up at me. Our eyes meet for a second. His jaw is clenched, mouth pressed into a tense line. His fists are balled up on either side of his plate, and his whole body is wound tight, like a damned live wire.
The last person in the room is an omega. The only one at this table.
I know right away who he is: Summer Larsen. Or rather, Ferro now. Anzo’s new husband.
Like Mauro, he doesn’t look at me either. His eyes are glued to his plate, his body language radiating submission. And then I notice something around his neck that makes my stomach twist.
A collar. Just like mine. No fucking way.
The sight of it hits me. It’s eerie. Unsettling. Anzo put a collar on his own husband? Suddenly, the whole situation shifts in my head, turns darker, sharper.
