“No. You’re an excellent criminal. Different skill set,” she said.
I took the gun from her hands. “Go inside.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not.”
“Aurora.”
“Oh, I hate when you say my name like that,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Inside.”
“What happened?” she asked, worry sneaking into her voice.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. Wind tangled her hair around her face. Sunlight caught the defiant lift of her chin. She had no idea how many men would kill to use her. Hurt her. Own her. No idea how quickly the world became teeth once it realized a person mattered.
And that was the problem. She mattered. Already. Fuck.
“Please,” I said. The word surprised both of us. Her face shifted. Just slightly. I hated that it worked. Hated that I’d meant it. She looked away first.
“Fine.” She stalked past me toward the main house, angry enough that every step sounded like an accusation. I waited until she disappeared inside before walking to the security post. Marco didn’t waste time. Good. I hated wasting time when I was about to become violent.
He turned the tablet toward me. A grainy image filled the screen. A man standing near the marina road in a gray coat. Another beside a black SUV. Both facing the estate. Watching.
My blood went cold in the old familiar way. Not fear. Recognition.
“Who?” I asked.
Marco’s jaw tightened. “Edoardo’s men, Paolo and Ginevro something.”
For one second, the world narrowed. Ocean gone. Sun gone. Everything gone except that name. Edoardo. My father. Some men had ghosts. I had a living curse.
“When?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes ago.” Marco groaned.
“They still there?”
“No. Disappeared before we could grab them,” he grunted.
I stared at the image. The man in the gray coat had his hand near his mouth. Smoking. Smiling. I knew him. Paolo. One of my father’s dogs. Too loyal. Too stupid. Too alive. Not for long. Marco watched me carefully.
“He knows about Aurora.”
Of course he did. Because monsters could smell weakness. And for the first time in four years, I’d been stupid enough to have one. Aurora Ventura. Marco lowered his voice.
“Santino.” I said nothing. “If he knows she’s here, he’ll make a move.”
“I know.”
“He won’t care about her. He’ll only care that you do,” Marco reminded me.
My hand closed around the edge of the desk. The wood creaked. For a moment I was twelve again. Sixteen. Twenty. Every age at once. Standing in some dark room with Angelo beside me, both of us pretending not to bleed because our father hated weakness more than disobedience.
My father never needed reasons. Only opportunities. A broken glass. A wrong answer. A missed target. A son who flinched. A son who didn’t.
Angelo had always stepped forward first. Always. Like he thought sharing pain made it smaller. Idiot. I looked back at the screen. Paolo smiled at my home. At my land. At the place Aurora had chosen to come back to. Something inside me went very still.
“Double the men at the cliffs,” I said. Marco nodded. “Lock down the docks. No boat comes within three miles without my approval.”
