Santos, the smug asshole, leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smirk. He exchanged a quick glance with his partner, searching for support, as if daring her to escalate the confrontation. His tone was laced with sarcasm and bravado as he replied, “Didn’t know that Vitale had even called his attorney.” The challenge hung in the air, yet she stood unfazed, her composure absolute.
“Oh, Miguel,” she cooed demurely, her eyelashes fluttering in a gesture that seemed gentle on the surface but was sharpened with intent. Her look could slice through steel. “You know I have my clients low-jacked. The second they step into this fine establishment, I am alerted.” Her words were precise, each syllable measured to establish her dominance in the room. “Now, if you fine gentlemen would please let me have a moment alone with my client, I would greatly appreciate it, or should I call Michael Avarro in Internal Affairs and let it slip that the Chicago Police in conjunction with the District Attorney’s office is not above board?” She finished with a pointed smile directed at Santos, her voice dripping with mock concern. “You know how Internal Affairs loves a good scandal.”
Santos’s jaw clenched as he scraped the gritty crime scene photos back into his file. The glare he aimed at my supposed attorney was pure venom, but I saw something else there too—frustration, and the hard glimmer of a man realizing he’d lost control. He stood abruptly, knuckles white around the folder’s edge. “This isn’t over, Ms. Tripplethorne,” he spat, the words half promise, half threat. He didn’t wait for her reply, storming out with the detectives on his heels, the door slamming like a gavel.
The second the door closed behind them, I jumped out of my seat and grabbed her neck, shoving her up against the concrete wall. “Give me a fucking reason not to snap your goddamned neck.”
Mischief blew me an air kiss, leaned close, and whispered, “If you’re going to choke me, Massimo, please squeeze harder, so I can enjoy it too.”
Ignoring her, I seethed, “Who the fuck do you work for?”
Tilting her head, she smiled. “I thought it was obvious.”
I growled.
“She works for me.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Massimo
I closed my eyes and cursed, trying to steady my nerves before turning around. When I finally did, there stood Crispin Sinclair, radiating an air of devilish composure that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. His piercing gaze was lethal—if looks could kill, I’d have been done for. Without a word, Sinclair took a seat at the table, his every movement deliberate, then gestured for me to join him. I found myself complying instinctively, sitting down before my mind could register a protest.
He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he smoothed a nonexistent piece of lint from the sleeve of his impeccably tailored suit, all while I sat across from him, holding my breath. The silence was thick with expectation—every small gesture he made felt loaded, meant to remind me exactly who controlled the room. I waited, watching him, knowing that whatever he said next would set the tone for what was to come.
Finally, Sinclair’s voice cut through the tension, cold and unmistakably commanding. “You have something that belongs to me, Mr. Vitale, and I want her back. I understand there may be difficulties on your part considering who she is to your family’s standing in the council, but know this”—his eyes locked onto mine, his stare unyielding—“I am not a patient man.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I met his gaze, refusing to appear intimidated, and answered with quiet resolve.“She’s my wife, Sinclair,” I said. “I can’t just give her back like a borrowed plate.”
He shrugged with practiced indifference, as if my declaration meant nothing at all. “Your marital status is of no consequence to me.”
I pressed on, undeterred, as Guilio’s voice chimed caution in my head. “Your daughter might beg to differ.”
At that, Sinclair’s lips curled into a half-smirk, his eyes sparking with a fleeting amusement that did little to conceal the menace beneath. The tension between us thickened, the silence stretching out, each second loaded with unspoken threats and lingering animosities. The air was electric with old grudges, and though every instinct screamed at me to look away, I forced myself to hold his gaze, refusing to yield an inch.
“My daughter—”
“Mywife.” The words erupted from me before I could weigh the consequences, my pulse thundering in my ears. It wasn’t just stubbornness—every instinct screamed at me to protect her, not for some obligation, but from the Devil sitting across from me. I’d die before handing her over to him. Still, I knew in that instant I was inviting disaster; Sinclair was not a man to cross.
“Tell me, Massimo. How is Don Vitale faring?”
His question caught me off guard—a sharp left turn that made me question what he truly wanted. My hands tightened beneath the table, struggling to keep my voice even. “He’s still in the hospital. The doctor said he should be home by the end of the week.” The uncertainty of Sinclair’s motives gnawed at me—was this just about his daughter, or something deeper?
“And did you ever find the woman who shot him?”
Confusion crashed over me, followed by a cold rush of realization as my gaze darted to the woman leaning casually against the wall, her attention on her phone, a tiny, self-satisfiedsmile curling her lips. Dread pooled in my stomach—how much of this had been orchestrated from the start?
“Now you understand,” Sinclair murmured, his voice dangerous and low. “There is no place you can go that I won’t find you. Your family means nothing to me. They are expendable, just as you are. But my daughter—” He paused, a strange intensity flickering in his expression, as if there was more at stake than even he let on. “Well, there is nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for her. So ask yourself this, Massimo. Who matters more to you? Your family or my daughter?”
My heart hammered in my chest, panic and defiance warring beneath my skin. For an instant, I considered telling him what he wanted to hear, placating his ego and buying myself time, but the look in his eyes told me it would be pointless. I steadied my voice, refusing to let him see how deeply his words shook me. “You already know my answer, Sinclair,” I said, my tone resolute.
His silence was more oppressive than any threat, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across his face as if he’d expected nothing less. The game was far from over, and we both knew it.
Standing to his full height, Sinclair straightened his suit, the gesture deliberate and controlled. He released a measured sigh, his eyes cold with finality. “And that is why you will never be good enough for her.” His words, heavy with judgment and disdain, lashed at my frayed conscience, a final verdict delivered without room for negotiation.
I met his gaze, my voice steady despite the storm raging within. “I already know I don’t deserve her, Sinclair, but that doesn’t mean I will just hand her over.” My admission was raw, stripped of pretense, yet resolute—an acknowledgment of my shortcomings, but also a declaration of my unwavering intent to protect her.
Sinclair’s response was nothing more than a smirk, his confidence undiminished. “We’ll see.” His implication was clear—a challenge issued, the conflict unresolved.
