The Petrovs had bought it out years ago—turned it into a fortress for the elite. Dignitaries. The obscenely rich. People said it reminded them of the hotel inJohn Wick.
They weren’t wrong.
Beautiful. Secretive. You only got in if you bore one of the five family crests on your body.
Maybe he was banking on the small tattoo on my wrist.
He stopped at the front entrance. The concierge appeared instantly. Louis handed over the keys without a word, took my hand, and led me inside.
Then he slowly lifted his shirt.
I froze.
He was bleeding. Not a little. Profusely.
“What the hell?” I whispered.
The man at the door stared. Then stared harder.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Did he have to make it a scar?”
Louis winced. “Wouldn’t want the crest any other way.”
The man nodded. “I’ll show you to your reserved room, Mr.—”
Louis hesitated.
Then quietly said, “Alfero. Louis Alfero.”
My last name.
I frowned. I didn’t remember a clause in our vows where he took my name.
I glanced back at his side and yanked his elbow down.
It was our crest.
My family crest.
Carved into his skin.
My hand fell, shaking. “When… why?—”
He gently pushed my hand away. “Fathers,” he said calmly, “always have impeccable timing. And reasons for everything.” A pause. “Then again, he could’ve just said welcome to the family like a normal human.”
I burst out laughing. “Sorry—that’s just… extremely theatrical for him.”
The smile left Louis’s eyes.
“I think,” he said softly, “he was feeling emotional.”
A chill slid down my spine. “Oh?”
His grip tightened on my arm.
“He was welcoming another son.”
24