“I never gave any go-ahead for an attack on that shipment,” he says.
The answer is immediate enough to satisfy the part of me that came into the room spoiling for a reason to turn this into a fight. I stare at him anyway. “I know.”
That catches him, and his eyes widen. “You know.”
“Yes.”
“Then why…” he says, then stops, reading the rest in my face before he needs the sentence completed. “You’re angry because it looks like me even when it isn’t.”
“That about covers it.”
He exhales slowly. “I wouldn’t.”
I nod once. “I know.”
And I do. That’s the problem. It would almost be easier if I didn’t.
Vincenzo crosses the remaining distance between us, then—close enough that his shirt brushes my bare chest when I shift—reaches up without asking to smooth the crease from between my brows with his thumb. The gesture is so soft and so entirely him that my whole body nearly betrays me and folds on the spot.
“It’s not me,” he says quietly. “But I’ll look into it.”
There is steel under the promise now. Good. Let him put that Vieri elegance to use on his own people for once.
His mouth twists slightly. “Especially since I’ve recently discovered a few things about Lucien that make me less inclined to give anyone on my side the benefit of the doubt.”
That drags my attention sharply back to him. “A few things.”
His eyes flick to mine, then away, then back. “Enough to know he may have been moving in ways I didn’t authorize.”
I file that away instantly. “That’s a very polished way to say your second may be a disloyal cunt.”
“That,” Vincenzo says dryly, “is the less diplomatic version, yes.”
A rough laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It feels strange after the last few hours, but not unwelcome. His expression softens fractionally at the sound, and before I can brace for what he’s doing, he leans in and kisses the line between my brows.
Something in me melts.
There’s no better word for it. Not softens or eases—melts. The tension that’s been wound hard through my shoulders and jaw and ribs since the first body hit the concrete just loosens under that one stupid, perfect gesture.
He kisses me there like he’s smoothing out a wrinkle in silk instead of touching the worst parts of a man who just came back from killing too many people to feel clean.
“Don’t do that,” I murmur.
“Too late.”
I close my eyes and give up fighting it. My arms come around him on instinct, pulling him in against me with more force than grace, and he comes willingly, fitting against my chest like he was built to calm exactly this part of me. I bury my face against his shoulder for one breath and hate how much relief lives in the act.
He slides both hands up my back. “There you are, my love.”
“Shut up.”
His laugh is quiet and warm against my neck. “Never.”
I hold him tighter because if I let go too soon, I might remember the blood before the comfort fully settles. “I’m sorry,” I say after a beat, voice muffled against his skin.
“For what?”
“My mood.” I pull back to look at him. “I’ve had to kill too many tonight alone.”
