“I’ll stay here until Enzo returns,” he says with finality.
Misery it is. Something we’re familiar with.
I nod, trying to finish the poached egg while he and Mom talk with familiarity and ease about Enzo and Calla’s wedding.
My mother doesn’t know the role my father played in my misery. When Igor told me the truth, I understood his need for revenge. He killed my father and kidnapped me to enact his revenge over the death of his wife and daughter. I would have understood if Mika had done the same. Instead, he chose me—slaughtered his kin to save me.
Every time Mika peers over at me, he sends my heart into overdrive. I am afraid the fragile organ might shoot out of my throat and flop on the table in front of him. I might be a virtuoso, but he’s the maestro orchestrating my heartbeats.
My mother’s mouth curls up in a secretive tilt. “Tristan seems like a nice man. What do you think, Dahlia?”
I blink at her as if inquiring about the preposterous topic.
“He’s not Italian,” Mika grumbles as if that’s the issue.
Mom’s gaze lights with a mischievous spark as she eyes me. “You said he’s handsome.”
Mika’s head snaps to me, sending me a death glare. No wonder I choke on the piece of toast. I beat at my chest, dislodging it, but by the expectant stare he casts my way, I don’t know if choking would have been the worst idea.
“And he wants her to move to New York, play for the New York Philharmonic,” my mother says, obvious delight threading in her voice.
“Is that so?” The coldness in his tone could freeze me in place, like an arctic winter.
“I haven’t decided,” I say, feeling petty.
I don’t know what is wrong with my mother, but Mika assaulting his egg is not a good sign.
“Are you interested in him?” He eyes me, his gaze darkening, looking half hurt, half savage.
The audacity. He has no right. None.
“Maybe.”
He holds my gaze, sucking the air from my lungs.
“Neither your brother nor I want you in this life, so I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you,” he says nonchalantly. He chews his food slowly, never breaking eye contact.
He had to ruin it, pushing me to challenge him.
I jerk my chin at him, madness snapping my sanity. “Who are you to tell me what to do? You’re not my brother. Nor my father.”
Mom flinches, and I apologize, but it’s too late. She retreats into herself and excuses herself, leaving me alone with him.
I breathe through the havoc wrecking my composure.
Like a predator, he waits for the perfect moment to strike. He shoots up and cages me in between his hard chest and the chair, his palms resting on each side of my hands. His chest ripples with his harsh panting.
It’s like every breath of mine rattles the beast inside him. His silver eyes take on a darker note, lost in a haze of violence.
“Tristan—”
He puts a thick finger on my lips, cutting me off. “Don’t say another man’s name in my presence, Dahlia.”
Instinctively, I lick my lips, which causes his jaw to sharpen. “He’s?—”
He grips my chin, his fingers digging into my cheeks as if wanting to mark me. “I don’t fucking care who he is.”
Somewhere during our clash, he began rubbing his finger over my lips, making them tingle and spreading goose bumps from my scalp to my toes.
