Page 10 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

The question hits me with such force that I stop. She stares at me with the same look from earlier, and it’s only then that I realize what she’s doing. She’s trying to implicate me…get a reaction out of me so that she can tender it to Enzo as reason enough to dismiss me from being her guard.

According to social media constructs, she’s many things. Standoffish, hardworking, beneficiary of nepotism. Apparently, now she’s a cunning brat, too.

But of course, two can play that game.

I flick a bored gaze to her and say dryly, “There’s not much there to look at.”

She reddens, surprisingly, then quickly turns and speeds down the stairs, almost spraining her ankle.

I inhale sharply.

Elena Rossi is no longer an abstract weakness. She is flesh and bone, a mix of wits and resilience. And Enzo has handed her to me without hesitation.

If she pushes me, questions me, resents me, I can work with that. Conflict opens doors that secrets keep shut. But if she ever learns the truth, if she ever puts together the fragments of who I am and who her family destroyed…

Her world would burn faster than she could scream.

That reckoning doesn’t belong to rage; it belongs to precision.

And precision, unlike rage, never misses.

Chapter three

Elena

This is almost impossible.

My jaw drops open as I scroll through the engagement chart forwarded by my business analyst, Sheila. The engagement keeps tanking, and sales for my newest setting spray aren’t hitting the target.

I do have my loyal following, and the sales from them are great, but I expected more… more reach. Apparently, I can’t have that because Camila decided to launch her own fucking setting spray around the same time I launched mine.

I know she’s doing all of this intentionally. That bitch.

A dull ache strikes my forehead, and I’m instantly reminded of my healing wounds. The doctor has advised me to be consistent with my meds…and has also gently urged me to reach out if I ever have PTSD from the attack.

PTSD. I scoff, setting Puddles onto the floor beside me. As if I didn’t go through worse at the hands of Father.

A particular memory hits me, and suddenly I’m transported to the time when I had to rot in a mental asylum because the bastard deemed it necessary to keep me silent.

Exhaling deeply to calm my nerves, I push my chair back, rising to my feet. I need a cup of coffee. Trudging tiredly to the door, I’m about to grab the handle when a better idea hits me. Why don’t I go over to Annora instead? She’d devise five hundred ways to make me feel better instantly, plus I feel stifled being holed up here alone.

We both agreed not to be seen around with each other so she doesn’t become a target for the death threats too, but I could really use her bright smile and snarky remarks right now. Besides, it’s 5:30 a.m. Who’d make out my identity anyway?

Grabbing a pair of black leggings, I pull them on, throw on a black tank top, and wrap a black scarf tight around my head and neck to conceal my identity. This is enough… right?

I head to the door, but when my fingers wrap around the handle, I remember him. Adrian Cole.

Embarrassment flushes my cheeks at the crude remark he made about my ass yesterday! Ugh.

God, I hate him. I hate this. I hate that he was supposed to be a one-night stand, and now I have to deal with his annoying presence till God knows when.

And I most certainly hate that I can’t figure out his schedule yet. Since he recently started working as my bodyguard, I’ve not been able to predict that… but I do know he takes breaks. Sometimes he isn’t glued to that spot in front of his door, and another guard replaces him. I just hope somehow he isn’t there now.

Clearing my throat, I pull the scarf tighter around my face, stepping out of my room quietly. I’m half surprised to see that the hallway is dimly lit and empty.

Ah, a breath of fresh air.

Hunching slightly, I fist my phone close to my belly and tiptoe toward the stairs. Suddenly, the light flicks on, startling the shit out of me.