Ashes to Blood

Chapter Thirty Three

Eden's POV

A few days after the gala.

I cut off every damn security cam and override every lock as I slip inside the penthouse like I own the place.
Silent. Clean. Efficient.

The place is immaculate — sleek, modern, expensive. The kind of space that screams money, arrogance, and "I think I'm better than you."
Figures. Andreas Lopez — the charming devil in a tailored suit, smile worth millions, secrets worth billions — would live somewhere that smells like cologne, gun oil, and misplaced confidence.

My boots make no sound as I cross the marble floor. I pull out my mini light, open the drawer by the study table, and start digging.

I'm fast, but methodical.
Documents, encrypted drives, fake passports, blackmail files — you name it, Lopez probably has it.

Then — jackpot. Something that looks suspiciously like a connection to that red-dress bitch from the gala.

And just as I reach for it —

Click.

The lights flip on.

I freeze.
Then slowly turn.

And there he is.

Andreas. Fucking. Lopez.

Hair damp from the shower. White shirt half-buttoned. A towel slung low on his hips. And a gun in his hand like it's part of him.

"If you wanted to come to my room this badly, Evie," he says, smirk already loaded, "you could've just knocked."

I blink. Once. Twice. Then scowl.
"Put that thing down before I shove it up your ass."

He laughs — that deep, low, infuriating laugh that makes me want to stab him with something sharp and then apologize to the knife.

"Nice to see you too, sweetheart. Didn't realize breaking and entering was your idea of foreplay."

"Don't flatter yourself," I shoot back. "I'm here for something important."

"Yeah?" He leans against the doorframe, still holding the gun like it's a toy. "And what's that? My patience? Because you're already testing it."

I open my mouth to answer — when my phone buzzes.

I glance down.
Caller ID: Dad.

My blood goes cold.

Oh, shit.

Which means he knows.
Which means everyone knows.
Which means I'm so fucked.

I swipe to decline, because I might be reckless, but I'm not suicidal enough to answer Constantine Blackthorn's call while I'm standing half a room away from a mafia heir in a towel.

Andreas raises an eyebrow. "Aww. Daddy checking up on his little girl?"

"Don't push me, Lopez," I warn, pacing closer. "Not tonight."

"Why, Little Reaper? Scared he'll ground you?"

I stop dead.
"Don't call me that."

He tilts his head, mocking. "Why not? That's what they call you, right? The Little Reaper. Cute nickname. A little morbid, but I get the appeal."

I take a step forward, voice low and lethal. "You've got five seconds to stop talking before I make you swallow that gun."

He doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch.
Typical Andreas.