"You can't." He laughs coldly. "You can't, or you won't?"
"Both. I—" I draw in a deep, slow breath, my shoulders squaring. "I love her. I'm in love with her. And I'm not going to walk away just because you tell me to. I’m going to find a way to make this work."
"You're not going to walk away." He repeats the words slowly, like he's trying to understand a foreign language. "You're defying me. You're defying a direct order from your father, from the head of this family, because of a girl."
"Because of Savannah. Because she's the woman I?—"
"She's made you weak." Dante's voice is flat. "She's made you exactly what I trained you never to be. Emotional. Vulnerable.Compromised." He spits out the last word like a curse. "You're going to end this. You're going to have no contact with Savannah Beauregard. You're going to return to your responsibilities, to the man I made you to be. And you're going to forget this ever happened."
My hands clench into fists. "I can't do that."
"You will do that, because I'm ordering you to do that. Because I'm your father and the head of this family, and you will obey me."
"No." The word comes out stronger this time. More certain.
Dante's expression doesn't change, but I can see something shift in his eyes—disappointment, and a deepening anger. He’s looking at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "You're choosing her over the family."
"I'm choosing—" I stop. Because he's right. That's exactly what I'm doing. "I'm choosing to be something more than what I’ve been before I met her. For the first time in my life, what I feel is real. And I'm not going to give that up just because you tell me to."
Dante is quiet for a long moment. Then he walks back to his desk and sits down. "You have forty-eight hours," he says.
I stare at him from across the desk, the muscle in my jaw twitching. "What?"
"Forty-eight hours to make your choice. You can end this relationship, return to the family, and we'll never speak of this again. Or—" He pauses. "Or you can choose her. But if you choose her, you're choosing to leave this family. You're choosing to walk away from everything—your position, your inheritance, your protection. You're choosing to be on your own."
I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing, that it’s gone this far. But I should have anticipated it. If I hadn’t been so absorbed for the last few weeks, I would have known this was coming sooner or later. "You're giving me an ultimatum."
"You can have the family, or you can have the girl. But you cannot have both."
16
ROMEO
Iwake up with my father's deadline hanging over my head and Savannah still gone. My penthouse feels like a fucking cage, the restrictions of what Luca is suggesting I do and what my father wants and what I can’t have beating at me from all sides. I reach for my phone before I'm fully conscious and send her a message.
Romeo:Please just tell me you're okay.
The message shows as delivered but not read. Just like all the others.
I call. It rings four times and goes to voicemail. Her voice tells me to leave a message. I hang up and immediately call again.
Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.
I throw the phone across the room and watch it hit the wall. The screen doesn't crack, and I wish it had. I want to break something. I want to destroy something before I destroy both of us, because I can’t control this.
It’s impossible to focus. I pace my apartment, chain-smoking on the balcony, texting her every hour even though she doesn’t respond. I tell myself that this is temporary, that she’ll be back, but her absence is driving me mad.
I go over the dossier again. I could destroy Whitmore. Eviscerate him so completely that marrying Savannah would be impossible. Make sure that she has no choice but to…
No. That's not right. Not "no choice." I don't want to take away her choices. I just want to remove the obstacles preventing her from choosing me. There's a difference. Isn't there?
Luca shows up at my apartment Saturday evening and finds me looking like a fucking madman. I’m surrounded by printouts of Whitmore's financial records, and smoking my way through a second pack of cigarettes when he lets himself in with the spare key I gave him years ago.
"You look like shit," he says, leaning up against the side of the couch. I glare at him.
"Thanks."
"When's the last time you slept?"
