Relief washes through me, though it does little to cool my blush. “I’m glad the wedding was such a success. Thank you for… well, everything, really. But especially for helping me pull it off in such a short time.”
Her eyes sparkle as she studies me, and I get the feeling she can spot my gratitude for the tactful change of subject. “You’re very welcome,” she says, then her eyes slide down to my dress. “That’s a lovely outfit. Where did you get it?”
“Oh, um. I made it actually,” I admit, my cheeks flushing once more.
“Really?” Anika says, sitting up in her chair as she studies my dress more intently. “You’ve got an eye for fashion,” she observes.
“Thank you,” I murmur, caught off guard by the compliment. I’ve only every fussed with sewing and design to keep my mind occupied and my hands busy. But having Anika, who always looks so beautiful and stylish, tell me she likes my fashion sense means a lot to me.
And though I feel like a fish out of water in my new situation, it helps ground me in a way I didn’t expect. Perhaps I can find a way to be useful here—even if I can’t provide Sandro with the heirs he’ll expect. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I’m struck by a wave of discouragement.
I shouldn’t count on it.
When my husband finds out I’m not fit to fulfill my duty as his wife, I’m sure he’ll send me packing. And until then, my main job is ensuring no one knows I’m sitting on a secret.
11
SANDRO
The mats smell like sweat and fresh leather—a cleaner, newer kind of air than the musty, copper-tinged scent of the fighting pits. I don’t mind it. It’s comforting, in a way, the same way the sound of fists slamming into flesh or the thud of a body hitting canvas can be comforting. Familiar. Honest.
Miko circles me, light on his feet, his eyes sharp and calculating. He always fights like a man with something to prove, though he doesn’t need to. He’s lethal, efficient, disciplined. He taught me everything I know about fighting, and still, he could kick my ass into tomorrow if he wanted. Because he has the patience to outthink me. My brother is strategy where I’m instinct. He’s restraint where I’m destruction. He’s the better man I wish I could be, but since I can’t change what I am, I’ll settle for being the family shield, the one who can take the blow, the blade, the bullet and keep on coming.
I roll my shoulders, keeping my hands up, feeling the ache in my muscles from last night. Not from the fight. From Evi. The thought makes my lip curl into a grin, even as Miko lunges.
His gloved fist grazes my jaw, snapping my head to the side, and despite the cushioned blow, I taste copper, feel skin split where my lip was already raw. I spit red on the mat and laugh.
“Distracted?” he taunts, circling again.
“Not enough to let you win.”
I charge him this time, forcing him back with a flurry of jabs. He blocks most, takes a couple, but I land a clean hit to his ribs that makes him grunt.
From the edge of the mat, Raf leans against the wall, arms folded. He’s been watching us for twenty minutes, his eyes never still, his mind chewing through a dozen problems at once. He doesn’t fight with us much anymore—not like he used to—but his head is as much a weapon as our fists.
“While you two are playing,” Raf drawls, “we’ve got bigger things to think about. The Yakuza aren’t going to just hand our home back to us—even if Kenji is dead and their leadership is weakened.”
Miko parries my punch and sends one straight into my stomach. Air whooshes from my lungs, but I grin through it. I like pain. It sharpens me.
“They’re still the biggest family in Chicago,” Raf continues, voice hard. “And with the Murrays backing them, they’re untouchable.”
I snort, even as Miko and I lock up, arms straining. “Nothing’s untouchable.”
Miko breaks free, shoves me back. His chest rises and falls fast, sweat dripping down his temple. “You’re the one who told metheir alliance is starting to crack,” he says, glancing at Raf. “Did something happen to make you think otherwise?”
Raf pushes off the wall and paces, running a hand through his dark hair. “Those were just rumors, Miko. Rumors don’t win wars. Until we’ve got proof, we treat it like their alliance is intact. Because if we make one wrong move, we’ll be crushed between them. Even with the Lombardis’ support, we don’t have the numbers unless we’re certain the Murrays are out. And then, it will come down to who has the better tactical advantage.”
I throw a punch at Miko’s jaw, and he slips it, countering with a hook to my ribs. Pain blooms along the already bruised flesh from last night’s fight, but I roll with it, coming back harder. The beast inside me stirs, stretching, eager.
“Then what?” Miko asks, breathless now as he backs up, dodging another jab.
Raf stops pacing, his eyes narrowing. “We pick them off, one by one. The Yakuza still have men watching the house. Our house. They don’t need to be there. Taking them out slowly, carefully—it’ll send the Tanakas a message, a warning. If we reclaim the property, we plant our flag again. Show the city we’re not dead.”
My blood heats at the thought. The house, our home—it’s theirs now, but not for long. I want it back. No, I need it back.
Miko wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. “It’s a risk. They’ll retaliate.”
“Of course they will,” Raf says flatly. “But it’s the right move. We start small, chip at their control, let them know we’re coming for them. If we can’t even reclaim what’s ours, how the hell do we expect anyone else to follow us?”
