“Oh, I understand perfectly,” I reply, and something dark and calm moves through me. “I understand that your father believes you are a pawn.”
Her throat works.
“And now,” I continue, voice low, “he’s frantic to get you back because his board has been overturned.”
She jerks forward. “You will not keep me here.”
I smile. “I’ll do whatever I like.”
Her breath catches, and for the first time I see the crack widen.
Then—
The door opens. Heavy footsteps.
A familiar presence that changes the air before I even turn.
Giovanni.
He stands in the doorway with a crutch under one arm, his shirt open at the collar, his face pale with injury but his eyes very much alive, very much lethal.
My heart clenches. What is he doing out of bed?
I don’t move; won’t give Isabella the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
But my voice is quiet steel when he’s within hearing distance. “We will have very strong words about this later,maritu.” The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
Husband. Sicilian and intimate.
Giovanni stills completely. For one suspended moment, even Isabella forgets to breathe.
Then Giovanni’s gaze locks on mine with something like shock, like hunger, like reverence.
He crosses the room in two strides despite the crutch, reaches for the back of my neck, and kisses me hard, claiming my mouth with a ferocity that makes my skin flush hot.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against mine. “I look forward to hearing that again when I’m balls-deep inside you,” he whispers for my ears alone.
Then his eyes drift to the figure in the chair.
“Anything to tell me,” he murmurs, voice rough, “myDonna.”
The title hits differently now, especially from Giovanni. Hits in the way that makes my very soul tremble. At the recognition I didn’t seek and yet sends waves of electrifying thrill through me.
I swallow, warmth curling low in my belly despite everything. “Yes,” I say evenly, turning my attention back to Isabella. “Plenty.”
Giovanni’s eyes flick to our prisoner. “Speak.”
Isabella’s bravado falters.
I report calmly, precisely, laying out the timeline, the rebellion brewing, the marriage arrangement in Sicily, the desperation underneath Bellandi’s civility.
Giovanni listens without interruption, and when I finish, his jaw tightens. “Salvatore thinks he can outlast me,” he says quietly.
“And La Fratellanza Nera thinks you have softened,” I add.
His gaze slides to me. “I do so love being underestimated.”
The room feels smaller, more dangerous as Giovanni’s hand settles at my back, possessive and steady. “We will silence the Bellandis,” he says, voice low. “Once and for all.”
