Page 50 of His Eternal Claim

Three old bloodlines. Three houses. Three problems.

And all of them are interested in weddings. How romantic. I smile.

Because when I don’t smile, people tend to die.

Actually, people tend to die either way.

My hand drifts under the table. Rests on the grip of my gun.

I imagine it. One shot to Vane’s kneecap. One to Massimo’s throat. Maybe Ricci too, just because he looks nervous and I hate nervous people.

I inhale because, apparently, murdering half of Italy’s aristocracy during a leadership meeting was considered “bad optics.”

Ridiculous. I release the breath through my nose, smiling wider.

“Congratulations.”

My voice comes out warm. Almost sincere.

It frightens them more.

“And your son,” I pause and tilt my head, “does he know?”

Vane frowns. “Know what?”

“That accidents happen all the time.”

Vane Davenport’s jaw hardens. His fingers tighten around his glass.

“Are you threatening me, boy?” Boy.

Because apparently prison is full, and I am trying very hard not to create more vacancies.

I shrug.

My hand slips beneath the table. Thirteen men stop breathing as I wrap my fingers around my gun, pull it free, and slide it back into the holster beneath my jacket.

“Why would I threaten you?”

The men pretend they aren’t one wrong sentence away from becoming wall art.

“If I wanted you dead…” Watch Vane’s pulse jump. “…you’d already be buried.”

I turn and walk out.

Because leaving a room alive scares people more than shooting it up.

Funny how that works.

The balcony doors shut behind me with a heavy click. I exhale hard.

Fuck this world.

I reach into my pocket. Pull out a cigarette. Put it between my lips. Then check the other pocket.

Nothing.

I stare at the cigarette.