Page 32 of Brutal Heir

Arabella picked the anchovy off an arugula and mozzarella crostini and handed it to me before popping the rest in her mouth.

The salty fish complemented the bitterness of my Negroni.

After chewing, she said, “She’s only doing it because she’s pissed that Father took his latest mistress to La Pergola. He knows that’s her favorite restaurant.”

Rafaello nodded. “I’ve had to add two bodyguards to each of their security details purely for fucking crowd control.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose to stave off a headache. “I don't want another public fight between them; the last thing I need is another PR disaster.”

My parents’ fights were legendary around Rome.

Their arrival at the same restaurant prompted staff to clear away all the glassware and knives.

I’d lost track of how many payoffs I’d made for broken china and smashed wine bottles over the years.

“They should just divorce and get it over with.”

Rafaello selected another crostini. “Mother, give up the Diamanti name? She’d kill the bastard first.”

My parents’ disastrous marriage was one reason my plan for Sabrina was not as ill-advised as it seemed.

It would be devoid of love and emotion. It would be a business transaction to protect the Diamanti legacy, and no more.

A simple arrangement.

And after I eliminated her father’s threat, I’d settle a generous yearly allowance on her and allow her to return to New York.

I had it figured out.

Not wishing to discuss our warring parents any further, I asked Arabella, “How was the Yves Saint Laurent show? Did they approve of our jewelry selections for their collection?”

She waved her hand in the air. “Of course! But you put me in an awful spot. I had a terrible time calming down the lead designer when he learned you appeared at that awful Édouard Sauvage-Lafleur’s show instead of his.”

I furrowed my brow as I watched the ice in my glass melt. “How did they find out?”

She laughed. “Are you kidding me? It’s all anyone can talk about. The gossip was all over Paris the second you entered the Louvre.”

I swallowed a low curse as I tilted my glass back and finished my drink, now wanting something stronger.

Crossing to the bar cabinet, I dismissed the whole thing. “It wasn’t planned.”

Rafaello patted her leg. “It was Plan B after Sabrina Dolce Badalamenti turned him down flat.”

“She did not turn me— You know what? Fuck you.”

Arabella took the glass from Rafaello’s hand and stole a sip before handing it back with a grimace. “Yuck. I hate Taroccos. Too much gin.”

“That’s why it’s my drink and not yours,” he teased as he pulled on one of her curls, a habit from our childhood days.

She gestured with her chin. “Is it true he let her wear the Yellow Persian?”

As Rafaello nodded, I snapped from over at the bar, “He is in the room, you know.”

Rafaello’s laugh rattled the ice in his drink. “And he is in a shit mood.”

“Shouldn't you be on your way back to Rome by now?”

Rafaello tossed a roasted olive in the air and caught it in his mouth. “And miss all the fun?”