Page 75 of Brutal Heir

Tapping the portfolio, I nodded to Benedict. “Thank you, as always, my friend. Give my love to the others.”

He rose and stretched out his arm to shake my hand. “Are we going to see you for the holidays in a few months? Rosa will be making her saffron zuppa di pesce, and you know she only trusts you to fry the baccalà.”

Rosa was the beloved housekeeper for the Cavalieris, who was more nonna than staff member, and she was an amazing cook. Her Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve was legendary, even if it was more of an American custom than Italian.

I smiled. “Count on it.”

He tilted his head and winked. “Perhaps you should wait to say yes for when you can ask your new wife.”

My wife.

Sabrina.

If all went according to plan, we’d be married by Christmas.

I patted him on the back as I escorted him to the office door. “We’ll be there.”

Even once we were married, I had no intention of altering my life in any way.

CHAPTER 20

SEBASTIAN

“Iwant you out of my life.”

Sabrina adjusted the strap of a duffel bag on her shoulder as she shifted past me and stormed down the cobblestone street in Le Marais, a trendy, old-world neighborhood for fashion house studios.

“Sabrina, come here.”

She tossed her next words in my direction without turning. “Fuck off, Sebastian.”

I tilted my head back and stared up at the centuries-old limestone and red brick building facades, studying their faded wooden shutters covering drafty windows behind wrought-iron balconies while I prayed for patience.

The idea of kidnapping her and being done with all the bullshit grew more agreeable with each passing moment.

An icy mist fell as I turned up my coat collar and followed her, gesturing to my driver to turn the car around.

Catching up to her, I growled, “Where the fuck is your coat? Why do you keep insisting on walking around in this weather without a goddamn coat on?”

Her hair whipped around her exposed neck as she turned sharply to face me. “I would rather die a cold, miserable death from pneumonia than give you the satisfaction of putting a coat on.”

With that, she turned back to march farther down the narrow street.

I’d pushed her too far, but I easily quashed my momentary flicker of guilt. She would forgive me later when she was surrounded by luxury in Italy.

Following, I reached to at least take the box from her hands.

She swung her arms away from my grasp, upsetting her balance.

Her ankle turned on the wet cobblestones, and she dropped the box and duffel bag while her arms flailed in an effort to keep herself upright.

I whipped my arm out and pulled her against my chest to prevent her from falling.

Glancing down, I realized she’d changed out of the sensible sneakers into a pair of ridiculously tall platform heels. “What the hell, woman!”

“Get your hands off me!”

As passersby took notice of the shouting, I lifted her slight form off the ground and carried her into the bricked archway of a nearby shopping arcade.