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“It’s her money, bimba. Well, your money.” He rolls his eyes. “That ungrateful bitch.”

“Watch your tongue,” Ello growls.

Roman sneers at him. “Still defending her? She’s dead. Because of you, if we’re being honest tonight.”

Something cracks inside my chest. My heart obliterates, falling under my spiked heels, as tears wet my lashes.

“Ello,” I say, lips trembling. “What is he saying? Why is she dead because of you?”

My mother died in a car wreck. Ello signed it to me while I read Papa’s lips. “She’s dead,” then changed my life.

Ello doesn’t look at me. He glares at Roman, and my brother, the sick bastardo, laughs. He’s always been cruel, but now I see the true depths of his perversions.

“Ah, bimba, don’t cry,” he mocks. The men grab Hayes and Ello, and they wrestle to escape. But there are too many of them, and their strength is overwhelming. “Crying is unbecoming.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, anger rising. Anger, I can handle; tears won’t work here. “What happened to my mother?”

“No need to shout.” He beckons me forward with two fingers. I don’t go, but the men shove me forward with their guns. I’m powerless here, no gun or knife.

What can I do?

The three of us walk through the house. Everything is untouched, as if no one has bothered to live here. My eyes fall to the couch, with its plush pillows. Briar’s vial is still under there; I’ve periodically checked during my dance routines. If I can —

Catching Hayes’s gaze, I make a subtle sign. “Catch.”

We swing by the living room, and I make an elegant fall, tripping over my heels. Slamming onto my knees, Hayes shifts behind me, blocking the guards. Blindly, my hand swipes at the couch. He has to be here. It has⁠—

There. A small glass bottle, tucked against the massive leg. I close my fist around it as one guard roughly pulls me to my feet.

Hayes raises a brow, and I slowly flash the bottle, slipping it into my top, under the guise of fixing my shirt. Not another word is exchanged as we go to Roman’s back office.

It’s in shambles. Papers scatter around the floor, the wallpaper is ripped, and broken paintings fall to the side. The chair lies on its side, and the smashed computer lies across the desk.

“Redecorating?” Hayes asks, smirking. A man hits him in the gut, and he doubles over, laughing. “Touchy. Got it.”

“Explain, Roman.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “A few nights being bent over, and you think you have all the power here. No matter what that brat O’Brien boy tells you, you’re not in charge, bimba.”

That’s exactly how Briar makes me feel—powerful. I have to remember that; remember the confidence he instills in me. I’m not a pawn, and I’m certainly not weak. This is my world, and I own it.

Roman notices the change and snarls at me, “Sit.”

“No.”

Tsking, he leans against the wall. “Fine. We will do this standing.”

A guard brings the chest from my bedroom. The hinges are broken; the lock destroyed. Someone took a hammer to it, to steal all its precious secrets. How dare they?

Glaring at him, I curse, “Figlio di puttana.”

“Such language for a princess,” he coos, eyes hard. “Imagine my surprise that I find this box in your bedroom. I’ve been searching for decades for this crap.”

Decades?

Stepping closer, I pick up the first note. It’s one from my mother’s lover, only a scribble.

You belong with me.