This isn't just about repaying Byron. This is about righting a wrong that's haunted me for twelve years.
"We need a new approach," I say, my voice firmer than I expect.
Byron turns, one eyebrow raised. "Oh?"
"Feretti rejected your direct proposal, but that doesn't mean we can't adjust our strategy." I move closer to the desk, heart pounding but resolve growing. "He saw me earlier, watching from the window. I noticed how he looked at me."
Interest flickers in Byron's eyes. "Continue."
CHAPTER FIVE
The sleek Aston Martin purrs beneath me as we pull into the private driveway of my estate. The meeting with Easton leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Fucking marriage proposal. The audacity of that man never ceases to amaze me.
Alessio sits beside me, silent but alert, his eyes scanning our surroundings as the gates close behind us.
"That was a waste of time," I mutter, killing the engine.
Alessio's mouth twitches. "Not entirely. We confirmed what we already suspected—Easton's desperate to get his foot in our door."
"Through my fucking bedroom door, apparently." I grip the steering wheel tighter, then release it.
We exit the car and cross the foyer of my home. The scent of lemon polish and pine greets us as we step inside. Home. The only place I let my guard down, surrounded by the only people I trust.
Enzo meets us in the hallway, his expression eager and impatient. He's dressed casually in dark jeans and a gray henley, but his stance is anything but relaxed.
"How did it go with the old snake?" he asks, following us toward my office.
I loosen my tie, letting out a controlled breath. "Easton offered us Queens."
Enzo's eyebrows shoot up. "And what did he want in return? Your firstborn?"
Alessio snorts beside me. "Close enough."
"Tell Ginerva to prepare dinner. We need to talk, all of us." I cut him off from making other questions.
Enzo nods walking away from us, already pulling out his phone. "I'll let her know."
"You need to relax," Alessio says, his voice calm and measured. "Easton's playing games. Nothing we haven't dealt with before."
"A fucking marriage proposal," I mutter.
Alessio runs his thumb along his bottom lip, his eyes distant. "It's a move to get inside information. Nothing more."
"Let's go. I'm not discussing this on an empty stomach."
We head toward the dining room. The smell of Ettore's cooking—garlic, tomatoes, and fresh herbs—fills the air. My stomach growls in response.
When we enter the dining room, Enzo and Lucrezia are already seated at the large oak table. My sister sits across from Enzo, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, paint smudges on her fingers and a charcoal streakacross one cheek. At twenty-two, Lucrezia is the spitting image of our mother—same large brown eyes, same delicate features that hide an iron will. Tonight she's dressed in her usual all black, the top strategically ripped in places that would give our old-school Italian relatives heart attacks.
"Finally," Lucrezia says, dramatically throwing her hands in the air. "Please tell us whatever earth-shattering news you have quickly because I'm starving and Ettore made osso buco."
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Despite everything—the nightmares, Easton's proposal, the constant vigilance my position requires—Lucrezia's presence always lightens something in me. She's the only pure thing in my life, the only one who's been protected from the worst of our family business.
"Patience was never your strong suit, piccola," I say, taking my seat at the head of the table.
She rolls her eyes at me. "I've been patient all day. I didn't even call you when the gallery rejected three of my pieces."
Ginerva enters with a steaming platter of osso buco, placing it in the center of the table. The rich aroma of slow-cooked veal and vegetables fills the room. She gives me a knowing look before stepping back.
