The most recent photograph of Dominic had to be at least ten years ago. He’d have been twenty-five. He stood beside his father at a party, his arm around his father’s shoulder, his grin cocky, everything about him carefree, as if he were the boy who would have it all. The girl by his side stared up at him, enamored with him, when he seemed barely aware of her presence.
Dominic Benedetti with his father, Franco. The man who’d pledged to take care of my family. Did Victor work for him? Was it a sort of rebellion against Angus Scava? He knew Angus didn’t like him. But did that mean Victor did Franco Benedetti’s bidding? It made sense. The brand screamed the truth. Mateo and I had been branded with the Benedetti family crest, not the Scava mark. Franco Benedetti had fucked us over, had promisedmy father he’d protect us then killed my brother and taken me prisoner. Dominic, a man I thought my ally in some strange way, was his son. I wore on my hip Dominic Benedetti’s mark as if I were branded cattle, a thing owned, not a human life at all.
He’d lied to me.
He’d told me Victor was playing a game, but Dominic was the master game maker.
Fury raged inside me.
I’d been fooled.
I’d been played.
I’d fucked my enemy. I’d slept beside him, clinging to him, and I felt sick for it.
I picked up the first thing I saw and screamed, sending it crashing into the bloodstained wall, watching the glass shatter into shards on the marble.
I didn’t stop.
15
DOMINIC
Something crashed to the floor in the other room. Gia screamed. I grabbed the pistol and jumped to my feet, running through the living room toward the open dining-room doors, where the sound of something else shattering had me cocking my gun, ready to fire.
Her scream came again, but I didn’t hear fear in it.
I turned the corner and kicked one of the double doors open all the way to find Gia standing in the middle of the bloodstained floor, shattered glass all around her, her face the image of fury.
“You!”
She sneered at me, her lip curled, her eyes hard. No fear, not at seeing me. Not at seeing the pistol I held cocked and ready to kill.
“It was you.”
She picked up the bottle that still sat on the dining-room table from that night. Franco and Roman had been drinking it. She raised it.
“What’s going on, Gia?” I asked, holding out one hand, palm flat, while I de-cocked the gun and slid it into the back waistband of my jeans.
Déjà vu.
Except I hadn’t disarmed the pistol that night.
She threw the bottle at me, rage burning her face as I sprang to the right. Glass shattered at my feet, sticky liquid staining my jeans.
“Calm down. What’s going on?”
“He was your friend.” She looked around the room for the next thing she’d chuck.
I moved toward her slowly, watching her take aim with one of the crystal tumblers on the table.
“My father took a bullet for yours. He was supposed to protect us! He pledged it the day my father diedfor him!”
She threw it. I sidestepped, and the glass smashed against the wall behind me.
“And you…you were Mateo’s friend.”
“Gia.” I kept my voice calm, moving in closer, trying not to look at the stain on the marble floor, the splatters on the wall I’d ordered no one to clean.
