The sound of a door slamming from inside the kitchen makes us both jump. Five seconds later, a very pissed-off man in a black tux yanks the pantry door open so hard it snaps back and hits the wall with a crack.
Well, shit.
21
Kane
I hover under the gazebo, watching the scene on my phone as a violent skirmish unfolds in the kitchen. Two guards patrol nearby, but they ignore me. Angelo ripping into Luka blasts through my earbuds, and I wince.
Horatio will not be happy when he sees the damage in the morning. I can picture his lips curling up in barely disguised disdain as he surveys yet more broken plates.
Luka stands like a statue, shielding Chiara with his taller frame.
Angelo yells some more, threatens to kill Luka, and then storms off.
I exhale slowly and let the tension in my body ease. Angelo has every right to be angry with his brother. Luka should know better than to touch what doesn’t belong to him.
But what Angelo refuses to admit is that Chiara isn’t his, and the more he tries to make the stubborn little vixen toe the line, the more she fights back.
That much is obvious after tonight’s shenanigans.
I understand Lorenzo is forcing the issue because he wants Angelo to produce an heir from a woman who understands our world, but unless Angelo pins Chiara down and fucking rapes her, it will never happen.
And I’ll be damned before I let him cross that line.
Fuck Lorenzo and his bullshit misogyny. The man lives in a world the rest of us would rather forget.
I take one last puff of my cigarette before dropping it and grinding the butt under my shoe. It’s time for my best friend and me to have a chat before he ruins everything we’ve worked for.
I half expected Angelo to drive back to the city, but he’s in the basement gym.
The punch bag thuds under the force of his fists as he unleashes all his frustration. With each savage hit, the tension in the room grows.
“Fucking Luka!” I imagine he’s picturing his brother’s face as he pounds the innocent bag, and I chuckle.
“Fuck off, Kane,” he grunts when he hears me.
“Nah. I’m in the mood for a sparring session.” It’s been a long night, but I’m also carrying a lot of tension. Mostly sexual tension, it has to be said, but I don’t tell Angelo that. If I did, he’d wonder why I’m not hooking up with a random woman in a bar somewhere, as is my habit when not on duty.
He carries on pounding the bag while I strip out of my suit. Neither of us bothers gloving up. After years of fighting, our fists can withstand the impact.
We dance around each other. A few quick jabs here and there. Nothing too serious. Then he lands a hit on my ribs, and the real fight begins.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m dripping with sweat and sporting a busted lip where he got past my defenses, while he has a nice shiner. We’re a fucking mess, but at least he’s lost his homicidal edge.
I take it as a win.
“Come on, let’s get cleaned up and then we can talk over a glass of whiskey.”
“I don’t need a fucking counseling session, asshole,” he mutters while wiping his bloody knuckles with a towel.
“No, but you need to figure your shit out before you meet Lorenzo for breakfast in a few hours.” He falls silent as we shower and change. Both of us know his father will want an explanation for the gossip-mongering stories that are already exploding on social media.
By the time we’re sitting in his office with drinks, it’s gone midnight and the house is silent. Luka left shortly after Angelo’s tirade, and Chiara disappeared upstairs, where she’s probably plotting revenge.
Angelo slumps in his leather chair and scowls. “Can you believe that fucker?” He’s still stewing over catching Luka and Chiara together. I’m not sure what he saw, so I ask.
“They were in the pantry.”
