Queen of hearts, p.1
Queen of Hearts, page 1
Queen of Hearts
Alta Hensley
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About Midnight Dynasty
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Nick
I slam my fist into my bedroom wall, furious and suffocating with the urge to kill someone. On my knuckles blood mixes with the black soot from the fire I just spent hours fighting. And now it’s all over my wall. Black and red. Fury and death.
“Where. The. Fuck. Is. She?” My voice pops through the air like bullets being fired from a gun.
I want answers even though the way my security looks at me—wide-eyed, fear visible in their stance—I know they don’t have them to give.
“Did you search the entire house?”
It’s a stupid question. If she’s not here in my room where I left her, or at the very least in her own room down the hall, then she’s not in the house. I know this. I don’t even know why I’m bothering asking the question other than to try to calm the raging madness inside of me by asking mundane questions.
“We did, sir.”
“How is it that my security team has no idea where Lyriope is? What the fuck do I pay you for? And why the fuck haven’t I just shot you both through the eyes because of your carelessness?” The question burns my tongue, and I have visions of cutting out someone’s tongue in retaliation for the incompetence of my staff.
“We were all extinguishing the fire,” Harrison defends, stepping in with confidence. He’s the only one in this room with the balls to actually speak the truth to me. “Everyone was at the dock.” His eyes lock with mine, silently telling me to calm the fuck down. “Our focus was on putting out the fire before authorities came.”
I take a deep breath, knowing he’s right. We were all there. The entirety of my available staff.
We left Lyriope alone. Vulnerable. A flashing beacon just begging to be stolen.
I begin pacing the room. “They blew up my boat to distract me. To distract us all. Then they came into my house to steal her from me.” I need to speak the words out loud. To make them real. To help me face my new reality.
A reality without Lyriope.
I stop and look at Harrison. “Morellis or Constantines? Who the fuck has the nerve to do this? You don’t think it’s the Sidorovs, do you? They didn’t seem interested in Lyriope at Wonderland since I paid her debt off, but that could have all been an act.”
Harrison shakes his head, points to one of my guards and orders, “Go see if they found anything on the security footage and let us know who she left with.” Both of my security rush out of the room, clearly grateful to no longer be in direct fire of my rage.
“I want to kill someone,” I say as I struggle to blink away the mayhem that is taking over.
“It won’t be hard to find out who did all this,” Harrison says. “We’ll retaliate in the loudest of ways.”
“This is inexcusable,” I shout. “To come to my house. My. Fucking. House.” I march over to my bedroom window and stare down at my charred dock and what was once my boat. The morning sun is reflecting off what’s left of the structure. “I want to know who did this, and I’m going to make them pay. I don’t care if it was the Morellis. Past friendship or not. If they did this, then this means war. I’ll give them a goddamn bloodbath to deal with.”
“Let’s not make any assumptions just yet,” Harrison says, his tone calm and soothing. He walks out of the bathroom with two towels in hand. He hands me one to wipe the black grime off my face. He’s covered in remnants of the fire and is a wreck in appearance. No doubt I look the same. “We don’t need to be making battle plans until we have all the facts.”
Bile clumps in the depths of my core. “If it wasn’t the Morellis that took her”—I swallow and release a ragged breath—“then her life’s at risk. We need to act fast because… we don’t know why she was taken and what their plans are.”
Harrison shakes his head. “From our meeting at Wonderland, I get the impression that Lyriope is wanted alive. From all parties. I don’t think anyone plans to kill her. At least not right away. She’s too valuable alive.”
God, I hope Harrison’s right.
Swiping the towel over my eyes, I mumble more to myself than to Harrison, “This is an epic mess.”
“You think?” Harrison says. I can hear his chuckle being swallowed by thin composure.
“Is this where you tell me that you told me so?”
“I think that much is obvious,” he answers. “Ever since you met this woman, you haven’t been yourself. You’re off your game. The Nick Hudson I know would have seen this attack and kidnapping a mile away. You would have been waiting with gun in hand.”
I hold back the growl that is roaring inside of me. He’s right. Instead, I was in bed with Lyriope… sleeping. Sleeping! I never truly relax and sleep, and the one time I do, look what happens.
Security reenters and hands Harrison some printed photos. I don’t blame them for not handing the photos to me first. They know that I won’t tear Harrison’s head off where the same can’t be said for how I’ll respond to them if they give me the bad news.
I watch Harrison look at the photos, his facial expression impossible to read.
“Well? Who the fuck took her?” I demand.
Harrison signals for the men to leave. He then hands me the pile of photos and says, “No one. She escaped on her own.” He takes a deep breath. “She took the opportunity the fire gave her and ran. She literally walked out the front door.”
I look down at the black-and-white images of Lyriope with a bag flung over her shoulder and another in her hand. I actually have to blink and refocus on the pictures several times as it doesn’t seem real to be seeing what I do. No one is with her. She’s not at gunpoint. In fact, in some of the pictures, she’s looking over her shoulder in the dock’s direction, afraid to be found.
She wanted to leave.
She left my mansion on her own free will.
Why the fuck would she leave? I thought she was… comfortable. Content… maybe even happy.
Where would she go? Back to her beat-up car? Back to being homeless and in danger? Back to being the bastard Morelli that no one wants? Back to the way things were before… before… me?
Ignoring the punch to the gut, I snarl, “Find her.”
Harrison is already on his phone texting and nodding as he does. “She couldn’t have gone far.”
I have her old phone, her car keys, her purse with her ID. Even if she left, it’s not like she could make it on her own for long without some crucial items.
“There’s no place for her to run to other than to her brother or cousin.” I pick up my own phone and call my man who’s in charge of babysitting Dylan. As the phone rings, I order Harrison, “Start with Sasha. My guess is Lyriope is with her.”
When the phone picks up, I simply say, “Is Dylan with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has he had any recent contact with his sister?”
A slight pause. “No, sir. None. We’ve been keeping him really busy and—”
“Good. No contact with his sister is allowed. Notify me if she attempts to. Watch his every move.”
I then hang up the phone and begin pacing the room again.
Harrison slides his phone into his pocket. “I’ve got our men on this. I also told Martha to do some digging on who started the fire. We still have to get to the bottom of that too.” He begins to leave the room, but before he does, he adds, “I’m going to go find Sasha Morelli. I agree with you. She’s the most likely one to know where Lyriope is.”
I leave my room as well and march to Lyriope’s. I open the door, hating the fact that she won’t be on the other side. As I enter the room, I stop and inhale. I can smell her. I can nearly feel her in this space. I glance at the floral painting she was working on in the corner of the room. She’s good… really good. Too bad she doesn’t know that herself.
I take in her bed next. It’s made to perfection as only my staff can do—not a single wrinkle in the bedspread. I try to block out the reason why her bed is made. It’s because she was sleeping with me. She was wrapped in my arms lovingly. Her body heat pressed to mine, making me weak. Weak. She made me fucking weak and trusting.
Fury fills me as I storm to her closet to see that she indeed had packed some clothing. Was this calculated? Had she planned this all along? Was her goal to get me in bed, lower my guard, and then take off the first chance she had? Was it all a game? Was our connection nothing but… a scam? Was I the fool in her game?
Sweet, innocent, naive girl taking on the big bad wolf. But in this case… she was the wolf. So cunning. So—
I run my fingers through my hair, feeling dirt coat beneath my nails as I do. Fuck. Fuck. Fu
I need to focus. I need to get my head back in the game.
Yes, the game. It’s just one fucked-up game. Lyriope has been playing a game from day one, and right now she’s winning, and I am losing. I’m losing my ass right now, and it’s time to shuffle the deck.
My chaotic thoughts go from longing, missing, wanting, to deadly obsession.
This isn’t how I act. I’m not a man in love. Fuck that. I’m a man who has a hunger, a craze, a maddening desire to possess. Nothing more.
Nothing.
More.
I storm to my bathroom to shower. I might feel like everything is out of control, but the first step is appearing as if all is standard operating practice. A shower. A suit. A shave. A fucked-up, maniacal smile on my face in warning for all to tread lightly around me. And a bag of ice for my knee. I pushed it too far fighting the flames myself and running down there without my cane. I can already feel the swelling as it throbs beneath my filthy pants.
As I wash off all signs of the awful night, I focus on one thing. Laser focus. Deadly focus. The kind of focus that latches on like a viper, refusing to let go. I’ll find Lyriope. And when I do… she’ll pay.
Chapter Two
Lyriope
This should be a dream, and yet it feels like a nightmare. I just flew first class to Italy. I should be ecstatic. I am literally completing a life bucket list item, but the only emotion that I’m feeling is fear.
I boarded the plane as Sasha Morelli. My cousin. She booked and paid for my ticket, which was my first time ever flying first class. The entire trip, I kept expecting the flight attendant to approach me with the knowledge that my real name is Lyriope Bailey, and I was breaking the law by impersonating someone I wasn’t. I remained in my seat, tucked against the window with a full bladder. I didn’t even want to get up to use the restroom in fear that I’d draw attention, and everyone would see me for what I was. A fraud.
“Are you here for business or pleasure?” the customs official asks me as he holds up my passport and stares at it and then at me.
I hold my breath, hoping to God the photo matches enough that he doesn’t see right through the fact that it’s Sasha smiling back at him. “Pleasure,” I somehow manage to say. “I’ve never been.”
Fuck. Sasha Morelli has been to Italy. There may be a stamp in that passport already from her visits.
“Well… I haven’t been since I was really young,” I correct. “I’m excited to be able to see it now as an adult.”
I’m talking too much. Nervous energy is surging through me.
He seems to be studying the picture longer than the other officials are doing with the other passengers, but I simply stand before him and focus on remaining composed. Will our matching dark hair and dark eyes be enough? We look alike, but not identical. Was this foolish thinking that I could actually get past customs as someone else?
He finally stamps the passport, closes it, and hands it back to me. “Enjoy your trip.”
Releasing the breath I have been holding, I continue toward baggage claim. I only have my carry-on and one other bag and am nervous that I don’t have enough to get by on. Sasha had told me that a driver would be waiting for me with a sign. She had informed me he’s from the property I’ll be staying at, and not to worry because no one has seen Sasha since she was a child. They will have no way of knowing that I’m not her. She said she called ahead and notified them of her upcoming vacation.
Luckily, the Florence airport is much smaller than JFK, my bag arrives quickly, and with a quick scan of the area, I see a man in a black suit holding a sign with the name Sasha Morelli on it. I approach him and smile. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even sure if he speaks English.
“Ms. Morelli?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
He doesn’t introduce himself, and I assume it’s because I’m supposed to know who he is already. Hopefully there is no reason to have to call him by name until I hear someone else address him.
He glances at my small bags and then asks, “Should we go collect your luggage, Ms. Morelli?” His accent is thick, but I’m grateful he knows English, which is good since I don’t know any Italian at all.
“I just brought these,” I say as I realize how unlikely it would be for anyone to travel for vacation with only two small bags. Especially a Morelli. I quickly try to cover up with, “I plan on doing a lot of shopping. I want a completely new Italian wardrobe.”
“Florence has some of the best shopping in the world,” he says, taking my bags from me. “I’d be happy to drive you into the city once you get settled.”
I nod and smile, unsure how Sasha would respond. I have to keep telling myself that Sasha was only a child the last time the staff at the Loro Ciuffenna house saw her. They won’t know it’s me. They won’t know this is all a lie.
Unless they ask questions…
I’m not even sure if I can remember the names of Sasha’s siblings.
Thankfully, the drive to the small Tuscan medieval town is quiet. The driver only speaks occasionally about how the weather has been lately, or how traffic is getting worse than the last time I visited. He doesn’t ask me any personal questions which allows me to at least breathe during the forty-minute ride.
The passing scenery is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I’ve watched movies that take place in Italy and seen pictures on social media. But never could anything capture what this country actually looks like unless you’re seeing it with your own eyes. Rolling hills, vineyards as far as the eye can see, cypress trees that seem to be painted by a master artist, ancient buildings that still stand from the Roman Empire days, and a magic that nearly sizzles in the air.
When we finally reach Loro Ciuffenna which nestles in the mountainside of Tuscany, I can instantly see why the Morellis wanted a vacation home in this small medieval village. It sits right on a river that cascades down a mountain with large boulders and foliage all around. Every building in the town is from another era, a time so long ago, and the historical beauty is breathtaking. It doesn’t seem real. The colors of the structures are bright yellow and orange which pops against all the natural green of the trees. A large bell tower dominates the view as we pull into the town, and I can hear it chiming as we arrive.
We drive down a dirt road along the river, passing a small house and vineyard with only three grapevines, several chickens, and a black rooster perched on a fence looking down on a lazy tabby cat sleeping in the setting sun. Laundry is hung outside, and I can see an older lady watering her tomato plants.
I roll down the window so I can take in the fresh smells of the Italian countryside, and for a minute I feel at peace. All is right in the world. Everything is perfect.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve been here,” the driver says.
“It has.”
“Violet has fixed up the west wing room that overlooks the waterfall. We weren’t sure which one you’d prefer, but that one has the sound of water to help you sleep at night.”
“Yes, the west wing room is perfect,” I say, hoping he can’t read into the fact that I don’t even know which way is facing west or east.
“You didn’t say how long you plan on staying.”
I see him looking back at me through the rearview mirror. “I’m not sure. I’m just taking it one day at a time.”
“I remember you always did like adventure as a child,” he says with a warmth in his eyes looking back at me.
The dirt road leads to a dead end and waiting at the end of the road is a house the size of an inn built on the large boulders along the other side of the river. A small bridge connects the dirt parking lot we are stopping in and the entrance to the house. The waterfall the driver mentioned is on full display, and I can see the room he was speaking of that literally hangs over it. It’s hard to believe that something so quaint, and yet so grand can be left vacant most of the year other than the caretakers living in it. If I was a Morelli, I would never leave this place. Well… if I was a true Morelli, that is.
“Are you hungry?” he asks as he leads me up an outdoor staircase toward my room. “We can make something for you—”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut in. “It’s been a long trip, and I really just need to rest and fight off this jet lag.”
