Page 142 of Vow to Claim You

Leandro Almaviri.

“I took him off,” I say, presenting the printed list on his office desk. “On purpose.”

“I know.” Aric doesn’t look up. “I put him back.”

“Aric—”

“Monsera is The Gods’ newest route. Your father holds it.” He finally lifts his eyes to mine. “A gathering like this—every family in the world represented—and the man who controls that corridor pointedly uninvited? That isn’t a snub he swallows. It’s an insult the Council notices. It costs us more than his presence ever could. Plus, he’s my wife’s father.”

“You threw him out of this house eight weeks ago.”

“And I would rather have him inside it Saturday, under my roof and my guns, where I can see every move he makes, than circling it in the dark, where I can’t.” His voice is even as always. “He comes. He smiles, because the whole world will be watching him do it. He leaves. And I will have eyes on him from the moment he arrives until the moment his car clears the gate.”

It’s the right call. I know it’s the right call. It’s exactly the cold, two-moves-ahead logic that’s kept my husband breathing his entire life.

It doesn’t stop the dread from settling into my chest like a stone and staying there.

My father will be at my gala.

With him walking back into our lives in five days, I should tell Aric what Naomi overheard. Even if she’s not certain if she heard right, and even if I don’t believe my father could actually have anything to do with the murder of Luca.

I open my mouth.

“And my mother?” I ask instead, because for some reason, I can’t bring myself to throw such shade at my father.

“On the list. With him.”

At night, Aric pulls me into bed and listens to me ramble about centerpiece heights and cocktail hour timing until I fall asleep mid-sentence, only to wake up the following morning with his arm still around me and coffee already waiting on the nightstand.

He’s not a romantic, but he’s attentive in ways I didn’t expect.

“You’re stressed,” he observes three nights before the gala, watching me pace the length of our bedroom while reviewing notes on my phone.

“I’m focused.”

“You’ve read that same page four times.”

“It’s an important page.”

He catches my wrist as I pass and pulls me to a stop before he takes the phone from my hand and sets it on the nightstand.

“It can wait.”

“No, it can’t. The caterer needs confirmation on the vegetarian options by⁠—”

He kisses me.

Long and deep. The kind of kiss designed to short-circuit my brain and redirect my attention to more immediate concerns.

It works.

Damn him.

“The caterer can wait,” he murmurs against my lips.

“You’re distracting me.”

“That’s the point.”