"Thank you." The words come out as a whisper. I'm not sure if he's capable of what I'm asking, but I'm willing to give him the chance to prove it—willing to see if the man I'm falling in love with can be more than just the obsession that drives him.
He stands there for another moment, and I can see him fighting the need to touch me, fighting every instinct that tells him to close the distance and make me his again. But he doesn't. He turns and walks toward the stairs that lead up to his bedroom, and before he closes the door, he looks back at me one more time.
"I love you," he says softly. "Even if I don't know how to show it the right way. I love you."
"I know," I whisper. "That's what scares me."
21
ROMEO
Dante is sitting behind his desk when I walk in. He doesn't look up immediately or acknowledge my presence, just continues reading whatever document is spread out in front of him, like I'm a subordinate who can wait until he's ready to grant me his attention. It's a power play, one I've seen him use a thousand times with business associates and rivals, and anyone else he wants to remind of their place in the hierarchy he's built.
But I'm not a subordinate anymore. I'm not the obedient son who follows orders without question. I’m not going to be told what to do, not when the woman I love, who is carrying my child, is on the line.
I sit down in the chair across from his desk without being invited. That makes him look up. His eyes narrow slightly, and I can tell he’s noticed that I'm not playing by the usual rules.
"You're late," he says, and his voice is cold.
"I had things to handle." I keep my voice neutral, giving him nothing to work with. "You said you wanted to talk."
"I said I wanted you here an hour ago." He sets down the document and leans back in his chair. I can see him assessingme, trying to figure out what's changed, why I'm not apologizing or making excuses, showing the deference he expects. "But I suppose punctuality is less important than whatever crisis you've created with the Beauregard girl."
The way he says it—like Savannah is some inconvenience that's disrupting his carefully laid plans—makes anger flare hot in my chest. "Her name is Savannah," I say quietly. "And she's pregnant with my child."
The words hang in the air between us. I watch his expression shift from irritation to something harder and colder, more calculating. "I see," he says finally. "And I suppose you think that changes things."
“Of course it does.”
"Does it?" He shakes his head, looking at me with an expression that goes far beyond disappointment. "It looks to me like you've made a catastrophic error in judgment, that's going to cost this family more than you can possibly imagine."
"I'm not asking for your approval?—"
"No, you're not asking for anything. You're telling me. You're informing me that you've gotten this girl pregnant. You've assaulted her ex-fiancé badly enough that he's pressing charges, you've made an enemy of Edgar Beauregard—a man with enough connections to bury us all—and you expect me to just accept it." His face is hard, furious in a way I've rarely seen. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I know exactly what I've done." I stand up. I'm not going to have this conversation sitting down like a child being scolded. "I've chosen the woman I love. I've chosen my child. And I'm not apologizing for it."
"Love." He says the word like it's something distasteful. "You think love is worth destroying everything we've built? Everything I've sacrificed to give you?"
"You've spent my entire life molding me into the perfect heir, the perfect weapon, the perfect version of what you wanted me to be. And I've done it. I've followed every order, made every sacrifice, become exactly what you demanded. But I'm done, Dante. I'm done being your puppet."
The use of his first name instead of calling himFathermakes something flash in his eyes—a brief moment of surprise. "You're done," he repeats slowly. "You're done. As if you have a choice in the matter."
"I do have a choice. And I'm making it."
I can see him recalculating, reassessing, trying to figure out if I'm bluffing or if I really mean what I'm saying. Then he picks up his phone, and for a moment I think he's going to call security, going to have me thrown out, or worse. But instead, he pulls up something on the screen and turns it toward me.
It's an email. From Edgar Beauregard.
"Your girl's father reached out to me yesterday," Dante says, and his voice is calmer now, more controlled. "We haven't spoken in twenty years. But apparently, your relationship with his daughter is enough to unite us in opposition."
I read the email quickly. It's exactly what I expected—Edgar laying out the situation, making it clear that he sees me as a threat to his daughter, proposing that Dante and he work together to end the relationship before it causes problems for both families. The language is careful and diplomatic, but the threat underneath is clear: if Dante doesn't control his son, Edgar will use every resource at his disposal to destroy us.
"He wants me to cut you off," Dante continues. "To make it clear that if you continue this relationship, you're on your own. No family support. No protection. No resources. He thinks that will be enough to make you see reason."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him I'd handle it." He takes the phone back and sets it down on the desk. "Because I will handle it, Romeo. One way or another."
