Vincenzo’s hand tightens on mine as he glares at the man.
Dashamir straightens, and his men move closer. “The matter is closed. If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of my way going forward. If you’re not…” His eyes hold a cold warning. “You will see.”
He gets in the SUV and drives away, leaving us standing in the warehouse with nothing but rage and frustration.
“Fuck,” Vincenzo says quietly. Then louder, “FUCK.”
He kicks a nearby crate, sending it skidding across the concrete.
I don’t say anything. What is there to say? We did everything right, and we still lost.
“We need those guns,” Vincenzo says. “Without them, the Lucanias are vulnerable. They’re relying on me.”
“I know.”
“And Dashamir just—” He breaks off, too angry to continue.
I move to him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. “We’re alive,” I say quietly. “We have each other. That’s not nothing.”
He covers my hands with his, holding them against his chest. “I’m sorry, doe. I should have seen this coming.”
“You did everything you could.” I press my cheek against his back. “This is my fault. I’m the one who killed my father.”
He turns in my arms, pulling me close, watching Dashamir’s SUV disappear down the road. “That man needs to get laid,” he mutters darkly. “Maybe then he wouldn’t be such an insufferable bastard.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “That’s your takeaway from this?”
“It’s a valid observation.” He kisses my forehead. “Come on. Let’s go see Rafiel. I have to break the bad news.”
The equestrian centeris on the outskirts of southern Malus, all rolling hills, white fences, and horses grazing in green paddocks. It’s beautiful and peaceful in a way that feels almost surreal after the tension of the warehouse. Horses thunder along the gallops, preparing for the racecourse, and there are several dressage arenas where horses with their manes in neat knots are being trained.
We find the stables easily enough, following the sound of voices and horse hooves. One of the livery workers points us toward where we can find Rafiel.
It’s a long, snug room, lined with individual pens, and enormous horses with glossy coats gazing curiously at us, ears pricked forward, as we pass.
Rafiel Lucania in a shadowed corner of the stable, one hand braced against a wall, leaning close to a woman. His jeans are old and scuffed. His hair is blond and shaved at the sides, and his arms are covered in tattoos. The Lucanias are blue-collar and rough, and they have never embraced luxury. Probably because they’ve never had the chance.
Except, apparently, for the woman in his arms, who’s sleek and expensive in her riding gear. He’s looking down at her with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
It takes me a moment to recognize her, and when I do, I can’t believe my eyes.
Ariana Barone, my friend Lucy’s perfect, dutiful, and off-limits older sister.
Off-limits to a man like Rafiel Lucania, that’s for sure.
She’s dressed immaculately for dressage in cream jodhpurs that hug her peachy behind and a tailored jacket fitted to her slender waist. Her dark hair is pulled back in a perfect bun. She has her face tilted up to Rafiel’s, and the space between them is crackling with tension.
Intimacy? Anger? Both?
Ariana sees us approaching, and her expression transforms instantly into cool, haughty control.
“And I told you that I have nothing more to say on the matter, Mr. Lucania.” Her voice is ice. “How dare someone like you corner me like this? Would you like me to speak to my father about you?”
Rafiel drops his arm and steps back immediately, his jaw clenched tight.
Ariana sweeps past him without another glance, her chin high, every inch the mafia princess. She ignores Vincenzocompletely, but gives me a polite nod, the only person here she considers her equal.
“Adora. Congratulations on your marriage.”
