ELIO
The drive to Ronan’s feels like driving toward my own execution.
I keep my hands steady on the wheel, my eyes on the road, but my mind is back at the penthouse—back in that bedroom with Annie, the way she looked at me when I told her it was over. The tears streaming down her face. The raw devastation in her voice when she asked if I loved her.
I did. I do. That's the whole goddamn problem.
But I can't think about that now. I can't think about the way she cried, or the things we said to each other in anger. Can't think about how I left her there, alone and heartbroken, while I drive back to face her brother and continue this charade of loyalty.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I glance down and see Diego's name on the screen. I let it go to voicemail. Whatever he needs to tell me can wait until after this meeting. Right now, I need to focus on getting through the next hour without Ronan figuring out that I've been hiding his sister for the past nearly two weeks.
That I married her.
That I made her mine.
That I’m so completely, irrevocably in love with her that the thought of letting her go makes me want to put my fist through the windshield.
I kill the engine in front of the mansion and sit in the silence for a moment, collecting myself. I need to be sharp for this. Need to have my story straight. As far as Ronan knows, I've been searching for Annie just as hard as he has. I've checked every lead, followed every possible connection, come up empty every time.
It's not a lie. Not exactly. I have been keeping her safe, which is what he would want. I just haven't told him about it.
And I've been fucking her. And married her. Those are slightly bigger omissions.
The air in the mansion is tense as I walk in. Something feels off, but why wouldn’t it? Ronan has been tearing himself apart since the morning he found out Annie was gone. Of course this place feels like a fucking mausoleum.
I knock once when I reach Ronan’s office and push the door open.
Ronan is standing by the window, his back to me, looking out over the estate. He's in shirtsleeves, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets. The posture might look casual to someone who doesn't know him, but I do. He looks tense, on edge. It’s no surprise.
“Ronan.” I close the door behind me.
He doesn't turn around. "How long have we known each other, Elio?"
The question catches me off guard. "Since we were kids. Why?"
"Twenty years." He still hasn't moved, still hasn't looked at me. "It’s been almost twenty years since my father took you on as a ward. Since you were basically my brother. We grew uptogether. It fucking tore me apart when they sent you to Chicago. Like my brother leaving home—like when Tristan left.”
"I know." My hand is still on the doorknob, my body instinctively recognizing danger even if my mind hasn't caught up yet. "Ronan, what's this about?"
“You said you were loyal when you came back. That you wanted to rebuild what Rocco destroyed. That you'd always have my back, no matter what."
Fuck.
He knows.
I don't know how, but he knows.
"I meant it," I say, and my voice is steady even though my heart is pounding. "I still do."
"Then where is my sister?"
The question hangs in the air between us like a grenade with the pin pulled, as Ronan finally turns to face me. I can see it in his eyes—the suspicion, the rage barely held in check, the hurt underneath it all. He doesn't just suspect any longer. He's convinced.
"I don't know," I say, the words bitter on my tongue. "I've been looking for her just like?—"
"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't you fucking dare lie to me. Not now. Not about this."
The door pushes open, making me stagger back. Four men stride in, surrounding me. My hand instinctively goes toward my gun, but Ronan's voice stops me.
