“Severin is on our side,” Nico volunteered. “Rocco’s thewild card… and he always will be.” He shrugged. “Too prone to play people against each other to ever be trusted.”
“Then there’s that small matter of the arms dealer I’m supposed to neutralize.” I rolled my eyes. “I suppose I’ll be taking care of that sooner than later.”
“Later,” Gabriel agreed. “Deal with Giovanni today, put Marcello right in his path, then let the two of them tear each other apart. Dealing with the arms dealer might win Rocco over to our side, then we’d have a unanimous vote.”
“I hate fucking politics.” I rubbed my aching temples. “Right now, I’d give anything to be back in the pits with no rules and my hands wrapped around Giovanni’s throat.”
Gabriel turned from the window, meeting my eyes. “I understand. If someone had tried to hurt my…” He paused, something flickering across his features. “Someone I cared about, I wouldn’t be standing here discussing strategy either.”
I arched a brow. “Remember that, if something happens to me. I want her protected.”
He huffed out a low laugh. “She was supposed to be my wife, remember?” He stepped close enough that I could see my own anger reflected in his eyes. “I’ll keep her safe, and when it’s time to take Giovanni’s head, we’ll burn every last trace of that male’s poison from this city.”
Nico tilted his head. “I’ll bring marshmallows.”
“Saints, stop being so fucking cheery,” I growled.
He gave me a thin, wolfish grin. “Sorry, it’s my nature to be optimistic. Get used to it, dickhead.”
There were three versions of myself fighting in my chest. The son my father raised, cold and calculating. The husband who’d carried Ember’s still body out of dark water and believed, for one blistering instant, that he’d failed her. And the monster who lived beneath my skin, claws scrapingbone, whispering,tear him apart, tear him apart, tear him apart.
The monster wanted to be set free, but in the end, only one thing mattered.
“You’ll keep her safe?” I asked, voice raw. “You swear?”
Nico dipped his head. “Consider your wife under my personal protection until such time as you return.”
I smothered another surge of irritation at the phraseyour wife—because of my never-ending jealousy when it came to Ember, and because I fuckinglovedthe way it sounded.
Gabriel clasped my forearm, grip iron. “Good luck, fratello,” he said.Brother.“Make this ugly.”
“Oh,”—I smiled, baring my teeth—“I intend to.”
The sun burnedinto the DiRavello family crest above the main archway, the double doors covered by shimmering wards.
I dematerialized at the edge of the canal, in plain sight because I wanted plenty of witnesses, then took the wide marble stairs three at a time, a spurned husband in a blinding rage, driven by temper, a haze of pagan magic bending the air around me.
There was nothing of the once-civilized Dominico heir left now, only the brutish fighter from the pits, held together with nothing but hate and scar tissue, better with his fists than words. Anger rode me hard, the kind of fury that might make a weaker male do something stupid.
Two of Giovanni’s personal guards moved to block mypath, sloppily yanking out their swords in haste, neither of them overly anxious to get in my way, fucking amateurs. “Signore Dominico,” one stammered, eyes bulging.
I didn’t slow.
“You’re going to want to move out of my way,” I warned, my voice velvet over steel. Their weapons kissed my chest, and I pushed forward, smiling—baring my fangs as their blades cut through fabric and into flesh. “Now.”
Steel cut deeper, blood scent filled the air, and I smiled. Both males flinched. Dropped their swords. I shoved them out of the way, my palms hitting the doors with enough force to crack the wood.
The massive doors flew open, the crash booming down the marble-lined entrance hall, rattling crystal and paintings along the walls. A guard at the far end rushed forward, hand on his gun, skidding to a halt when he saw my face.
“Giovanni!” I roared, voice echoing under the painted ceiling. “Where the fuck is she?”
A prim butler stumbled out of a side doorway, face blanching. “Signore Dominico, please, you cannot simply?—”
“Where,” I repeated, in a tone that made seasoned killers rethink their life choices, “is my fucking wife?Where is Emberline Dominico?”
“I… she is not…”
“Let’s try this, then.” I prowled toward the sweating, hapless male, shrinking down inside his tuxedo. “Where is Signore Giovanni? Perhaps he’ll confess where he’s hidden his niece?”
