“Why?” I arch a brow. “Worried I’m going to have an episode and make a mockery of the Vitale name?”
“Is that what you think?”
“Do you ask everyone else for a detailed report of what they do when they leave the island?”
He chooses to ignore that point.
“She’s engaged,” he says, as if I don’t already fucking know that.
“I’m aware.”
“To our cousin,” he adds. “The contract is signed.”
“And?”
“Why are you meddling in her life? Moving her out of her apartment. Changing her guard. God knows what else you’ve been doing. I know you like to torment her, Romeo, but this is above and beyond.”
“Gabi wasn’t safe in that apartment, and her guard was incompetent. If Riccardo had two functioning brain cells, he would have known that.”
Angelo studies me. “So you aren’t trying to move in on her behind his back?”
The idea that I owe Riccardo any sort of loyalty is laughable. She was mine first. She’s always been mine, even when she didn’t know it. But that’s not what this is really about. Angelo is in the middle of negotiating the favor of a senator, using Riccardo’s father Emilio as his connection. It’s a big score with opportunities for backchannel lobbying and securing government contracts. He wants my assurances that I’m not going to fuck this up somehow.
“Nothing has changed,” I bite out. “Don’t twist yourself up in knots on Riccardo’s behalf.”
“It’s not Riccardo I’m worried about.”
“So what then? Afraid I’ll blow a gasket and hurt Gabi?”
A grim expression settles over his face. “Is that what Dad told you?”
I don’t answer, and the silence that follows is uncomfortable as fuck.
“He must have said something because you did a thorough job of pushing her away.”
“He told me the truth.” I stare through him.
Angelo looks like he wants to argue, but thinks better of it. “You can’t just come back into her life when you feel like it.”
“I already told you, it’s nothing. Now, if you don’t mind, can you fuck off so I can go to bed?”
He lingers for a moment, then nods. “Fine. Get some sleep.”
When he leaves the suite, my focus shifts to the monitors on my desk. I haven’t watched her today, but the echo of my father’s words blunts that spark of temptation.
You aren’t good for her.
Not like this.
He was right. And I know if I ever opened the letter he gave me before he died, there’d be another reminder.
As if I needed one.
My gaze drifts to the scar imprinted on my hand. There’s a certain irony to its haunting permanence.
Gabi has no idea the mood ring she won branded itself onto me during the lightning strike.
She’d tried a few different fingers before realizing it would only fit one. I’d never seen her blush as furiously as she did when I slid it onto my ring finger. She referenced the chart to read my mood, growing even more flustered when I asked her what it was.
