Around us, my family sits in various states of controlled tension. Dante signs something to Nico, Luca cleans his nails with a blade, Sofia watches Emma with barely concealed suspicion. The Glock pressed against my ribs is a familiar weight, safety off, ready for whoever's threatening what's mine. Emma's body still carries the evidence of how thoroughly I claimed her. My knuckles split from persuasion work, her skin marked where I gripped too hard, her pussy probably still sore from taking every inch of my desperation and rage.
Emma spreads the photos across the table, studying each one as if she wasn't trembling in my arms just hours ago, screaming my name while I promised to destroy anyone who threatened us. Her fingers trace patterns only she sees, and Christ, watching her take command like this makes my cock stir despite the gravity of the situation. Every man at this table is seeing whatI already knew. She's not just beautiful, she's fucking brilliant. And she's mine.
"These were all taken from service areas," she observes quietly, her voice steady despite everything we've done in the last six hours. "Loading docks, kitchen entrances, the spots where staff create blind spots during shift changes."
Dante's hands pause mid-sign, his dark eyes sharpening with interest.
"Whoever took these knows servant patterns," Emma continues, arranging the photos by timestamp. The movement makes her lean forward, and I catch her jasmine scent mixed with sex and my cologne, marking her as thoroughly as any ring could. "Third Wednesday, rotation day. First Monday, laundry service. They're using the invisible people, the ones you don't notice because they've always been there."
My hand finds her thigh under the table, thumb stroking through the silk. The gesture looks supportive to my family, but Emma knows it's possession, a reminder that after this meeting, I'll bend her over my desk and fuck the tension out of both of us while recounting every threat I'll eliminate for her.
"Since when does the Hewson princess understand servant schedules?" Sofia asks sweetly, though poison drips from every word.
Emma doesn't flinch, though I feel her pulse quicken under my touch. "Since I started paying attention to how households actually run instead of just living in them."
The response is perfect, deflection without confession. Pride and arousal war in my chest as she continues her analysis, pointing out details even Marco missed. My brilliant little liar, playing her role perfectly.
"This is family business," Sofia announces to the room, now ignoring Emma completely. "Why are you taking advice from children?"
Emma straightens but doesn't retreat. "Because I understand desperation," she says. "And desperate people make predictable mistakes."
Fuck. The way she commands authority despite her fear makes me want to clear this table and take her right here. My cock hardens fully at the thought, and I have to adjust myself under the table.
"Listen to the princess," Sofia mutters, her fingers drumming against the table with increasing agitation. Something's off with her tonight, nervous energy crackling around her like static. "Next she'll be teaching us about survival. About sacrifice. About things she's never experienced from her Swiss boarding school tower."
"Sofia," Marco warns, but she's already building momentum.
"It's fascinating, really." Sofia stands, circling the table like a predator. "How quickly she's adapted. How naturally she fits into our world. Almost like she's been rehearsing for this role her whole life."
Emma stays perfectly still, but I feel the slight tremor where our bodies touch. My hand tightens on her thigh, a silent promise that I'll handle this. Calabrese watches the exchange with growing interest, sensing blood in the water. The rage building in my chest tastes metallic, like the blood I'll spill if Sofia pushes much further.
"The girl makes solid points," Luca interjects, still cleaning his nails. "Her servant theory fits the evidence."
"Of course it does," Sofia snaps. "Because she's not—"
"Not what?" I ask, my voice dropping to dangerous territory. The same tone I used before putting three bullets in the last man who threatened Emma. "Not family yet? She's my wife, Sofia. That makes her more family than outsiders offering unsolicited help."
"She's a fraud!" Sofia's accusation explodes across the room like shattered glass. "This isn't the real Hewson daughter! I don't know who she is, but she's not—"
"You're paranoid," I say calmly, though my pulse pounds in my ears and my hand drifts toward my gun. "Again."
Sofia's eyes widen with rage. "I am not—"
"You've been erratic for weeks. We've all noticed it." I stand slowly, positioning myself between her and Emma, my body coiled for violence. "You've been struggling since the Russians resurfaced, we all know that. But attacking my wife because you're falling apart? That's beneath even you."
The room goes silent. Marco's eyes narrow, reassessing. Dante's hands still completely. Even Luca stops pretending to clean his nails. The taste of blood fills my mouth from biting my tongue to keep from telling Sofia exactly what I'll do to her if she says Emma's real name.
"How dare you," Sofia breathes. "Father's death destroyed all of us, but at least I'm not—"
"Not what? Not moving forward? Not functioning?" I let disappointment color my voice while imagining wrapping my hands around her throat. "Father would be ashamed to see you like this, Sofia. Paranoid, making wild accusations because you can't handle change."
"This isn't about father's death!" Sofia's voice cracks. "This is about the truth—"
"This is about you spiraling," Marco interrupts quietly, and everyone turns to him. "Alex is right. The paranoia, the accusations, you need to get yourself together, Sofia."
"I'm not paranoid! She's not who she claims to be!"
"Enough." Marco's single word carries finality. "We have real threats to handle. The blackmailers already compromised three of our operations last night. If you can't contribute without these… episodes, then leave."
